Heartless
by The Dark Passanger
Summary: Bobby is shown a journal penned by a mysterious hunter; Taylor Nelson. The pages tell a foreboding tale of violence, self discovery, and a strange meeting with the Winchester boys themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**Heartless: Episode 1  
**

"About A Girl" 

**** Bobby Singer opened the door one hot and humid afternoon in July and found an old friend standing on the porch.

"Hey Bobby," She had said, with an inflection and tone that mirrored what she had said almost two whole years ago; "Bye Bobby". He didn't know how to respond at first, and for a moment he wondered if the heat was finally getting to the old bag of bones he was getting half-to-death-tired of lugging around lately.

"Sheryl?" He said, wishing he didn't sound so shocked.

"You're shocked," Sheryl replied, her warm smile still lingering.

"Well," He said, a smile curling upon his lips too- it's funny how contagious those things are. "It has been awhile…" he reasoned, and Sheryl's gaze dropped to the ground. She noticed that he was wearing the same old pair of jeans and the same old pair of leather boots he had been wearing the day she left. "Last time I saw you… you were runnin' off after some demon at Hunter's Pass," He said.

That's when instinct kicked in, and Bobby took a few steps backwards. He realized then that the odds that Sheryl Palmer was still alive was a million to one… and yet, here she stood. Or at least, he considered, _it_ sure looked a lot like Sheryl Palmer. "It's hard to keep track of friends in a job like this," She said, "I knew I shoulda called or something, but… well… you of all people should understand," She explained, "Sometimes it's easier to just keep going,"

Bobby knew what she was talking about; in the line of work that they were in, it wasn't just easy to become a loner, it was damn-right necessary. The less people you knew, the less you had at stake; the less you had to lose. Hunting ghosts, demons and monsters was a gamble all the time, every time. Bobby was constantly aware that he was living on borrowed time, and the more he wandered around on this temporary plane of waste and despair, the closer he'd come to one day losing this game. But for Bobby it was simple, he no longer had a wife to worry about, and there were never any children… well, unless you count-

"How are those Winchester boys of yours?" Sheryl asked, her voice breaking the silence.

"Uh," Bobby said, coming out of his spiral into existential ponderings. "Why… why don't you come in," He said, and stepped aside for Sheryl to enter. She paused for a moment, then nodded and stepped over the threshold. He watched her as she looked around at the ancient all-American, all-Southern house with a faint, knowing smile. Bobby silently closed the door.

"Hex bags, right?" She said.

"What?"

Sheryl nodded at the hex bags above the door, "Have I passed the test yet or do I need to down a gallon of holy water too?" She grinned, raising an eyebrow at Bobby who just scoffed and shook his head.

"Can you blame me, Sheryl?" He said.

Moments later, after she had swallowed down a glass of holy water without spurting out blood and spitting out black smoke, Bobby finally felt the knot in his stomach relax. "If you don't mind," Sheryl said, a little smirk on her lips, "I'd like something a little stronger now. Bobby grinned and they embraced.

"It's good to see ya' Sheryl," He said. "I mean it, really, I never thought… well…" there wasn't a need for an end to that sentence, they both knew that, and so with a nod and a smile, Sheryl sat down at the dinner table as Bobby hunted down a nice aged bottle of whiskey.

Bobby Singer was usually a man of a few words, but Sheryl always had a way of swinging him out of his old-man-hermit rut. They were old friends from way back in high school, and they both grew up to be hunters. Sheryl moved around a lot, but always found a way back to Bobby's front door… and somehow, always in one piece. She was a witness at his wedding, and a shoulder to cry on when his wife passed on.

Right now though, Bobby Singer was positively festive, and he even defrosted the last packed of instant apple pie for them to enjoy together at the dining table. Sheryl smiled as she cut a slice that was half piping hot and half still slightly frozen, and she listened to him talk about the Winchester boys with livid enthusiasm. The Winchesters were a special topic of course, and it was one Sheryl had been used to hearing about even on the road; a couple of brothers thrown into the world of hunting demons and monsters when their mother was killed by Azazel, a yellow eyed demon. Mary Winchester was killed one night when she had gone to check on little baby Sam. John himself found her, hanging from the ceiling with her guts ripped out and dripping blood all over their child who cried in his cot. And then, she exploded in a blaze of fire that consumed the house and their normal lives as they knew it ended. John packed the boys up in his black Chevrolet Impala and shipped them out on a journey to find the demon who killed her. Their story was unfortunately, a lot more complicated and a lot more twisted than a relatively _simple_ homicide and search for revenge.

Truth was; Sheryl was also friends with the boys' father John Winchester. Then again, there wasn't a hot blooded woman in the entire world who wouldn't have wanted to get a little closer to John Winchester… He was a troubled, but good looking man who did just about everything in his power to protect and train his sons Dean and Sam. He fought for them to the ends of the earth, until all he had left to give was his own life. If he had only known how much his sons would have to endure, and how the weight of the burden on their shoulders would grow over the many, many torturous years to come… perhaps he would've had the decency to leave them in that burning building in the first place.

Now the Winchester boys were on a mission to save the world, destroy the devil and stop the apocalypse. A far cry from their usual hunts… but the truth was, there were so many other hunters out there dying left and right for the sake of the world that didn't even know they existed. They were out there in their hundreds, thousands… maybe even millions; no one was keeping tabs… but they were out there every day and every night, keeping the rest of the world safe.

"Thing is, Bobby…" Sheryl began as she sat her dessert fork down and reached for something in her leather satchel. "I found something that I thought you had to see for yourself,"

"What is it?"

Sheryl lifted it out; an old moleskin journal tied together with a grease-stained bit of kite string and a red shoelace. She sighed and put it on the table in front of Bobby, who still looked confused. He reached for it and she quickly put a hand down on it to stop him. "Bobby, the reason why I decided to bring it here to you… was so that you could read it for yourself,"

"Alright then," Bobby said, turning serious, "You gunna tell me what it is or not?"

"It's a journal," She said, "It's by a hunter…"

"A hunter?"

"Her name was Taylor Aubrey Nelson," Sheryl said carefully, turning solemn and pensive, "I met her once, a long time ago… and she went by a different name then," she sighed. "You see, she met Dean and Sam,"

"She what? What happened to those two?" Bobby piped up suddenly, like a startled guard dog.

"Nothing- nothing," Sheryl said quickly, "It's just that, they were on the brink of discovering something about her, but she never… well, she took off,"

"Discovering what about her?" Bobby squinted his eyes questioningly.

"That's what I need you to read about… I'd tell ya' Bobby, but I doubt you'd believe me for a second," She replied, taking her hand off the book and sitting back in her chair. Her finger tips rested on the rim of her glass of Whiskey for awhile as she floated away into thought for a moment, "I think she's important Bobby… and I mean apocalypse important. And once you've read this, I need you and those Winchester boys of yours to help me find her."

"Me?" Bobby picked up the book and looked up at Sheryl again, "I don't understand…"

"Just read it," Sheryl said and took a gulp of her Whiskey. "Thing nearly bowled me over when I did…"

Adapted from the Diary of Taylor Aubrey Nelson:

December 4th 2009

We had stopped at another cheap and greasy diner, and I had ordered another salad at the feeble attempt of maintaining some sort of internal-health-balance. Francis, my brother, seemed hell bent on consuming copious amounts of red meat instead, and ordered a double bacon cheese burger, as well as the house steak. I suppose you can do anything you want when you're built like a tank.

"You should get something a little more if its gunna last you," He said softly, adjusting the placement of the cutlery on the table as we waited for our meals. "Chicago winters can really take it outta you,"

"I'll take my chances," I said with a soft smile, also dodging eye contact by staring down the dessert menu, "Besides," I said, "The last job didn't exactly pay off a lot… I think I'd like to save some of the cash for the new Placebo album,"

Francis scoffed, "You're the only person I know who's still worrying about music in these… conditions,"

"Hey," I quipped, "If I have to listen to one more classic rock album, I might have to off myself," I laughed.

Somehow, Francis laughed too, and I was almost taken a back at the sight. "Not my fault you only like that new-agey-rock shit," He smirked as he stood up, "And Motley Crew ain't classic rock," He said, waving a finger at me. I raised an eyebrow as he patted me on the shoulder and took off towards the restrooms.

"Classic enough," I called out, "Tommy Lee ain't no spring chicken," I smirked.

I watched as he passed two young men on his way; they were just entering the shop and gave Francis a cautious momentary glance as they strutted in. One was taller, and had shaggy brown hair that seemed in desperate need of a haircut. The other was about 6'1", had short brown hair and short stubble that added to his look of carefree swagger. He nudged the taller one in the ribs and spouted a joke I couldn't hear, before giggling and nodding at an attractive waitress behind the counter. I studied their clothes as they slumped into a booth just a few feet away. They wore beat up windbreakers, dark jeans and muddy brown leather boots. _They must be from the south_.

The shorter one held my attention; I watched as he picked a toothpick from the table's toothpick container and began to chew on it as he eyed the menu. He didn't look like the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was pretty good looking, and this was exactly the kind of combination that caught my attention. He looked up and suddenly we fell into eye contact. I smiled, and he grinned a boyish grin… _I knew the type_… I was rarely wrong about these things. I had become a little bit of an expert at hustling my money from egotistical, hapless guys hoping to get laid. Sometimes it was a whole lot easier and more forthcoming than working.

I looked down at the table and pretended to fidget with my shark tooth bracelet. When I looked up again, he was sitting in my brother's seat opposite me. "Hey sugar," He said, "Get food poisoning here often?"

I laughed- I really, seriously laughed… I wasn't expecting that.

"Dean," He said, extending a hand across the table.

I shook it, smiling sweetly, "Tash," I lied.

"Tash," He said, "Pretty lady, pretty name," _If I had a nickel…_

"Thank you," I said softly, and we shared another gaze. He wasn't as muscular as my brother, but he looked like a regular gym buff. I started to genuinely wonder-

"What's something so pretty doing in a place like this?"

I smiled again, "The recession brought me here," I said, and he laughed.

"I know the feeling," He said. "It's a hard knock life,"

_You have no idea_, I thought. "Look," I said, "You better get out of that chair before my brother comes back, he's a little protective," I read from the script in my mind; nothing gets them hooked like a good old fashion sting of rejection.

"Is that so?" Dean said, raising an eyebrow with a defiant look of mischievousness on his face. It was cute, but obviously, my brother didn't think so.

A hand landed on Dean's shoulder, making him flinch as he looked up and was met by Francis staring down at him. "You better believe it, sonny,"

Dean gathered up yet another charming smile, "Sorry sir –didn't know this seat was taken." He looked like a high school jock trying to weasel his way out of detention. He stood up, and both men made a subconscious effort of puff-out-your-chest-dominance. _All that stuff must be inbuilt_…"I was just offering your sister here a drink on me-"

"We'll take two beers," Francis cut him off with a grin before sitting down and ignoring Dean completely. Dean paused for a moment, wading through the confusion of what had just happened and trying to regain some sort of self composure. I smiled and he grinned back with a nod.

"Alright, then," He said and turned towards the waitress who was topping up ketchup bottles behind the counter, "Two beers for these lovely travellers," He ordered in a tone dripping of sarcasm.

My gaze dropped to the booth where his friend sat, and I saw the taller guy make a face and shake his head. Dean sat down and shrugged in response as he mouthed; "What?"

"Hustling boys again?" Francis said as our meals arrived.

"Thanks," I nodded up at the waitress who smiled and walked away again. I saw Dean watch her- or more rather, her behind. I spotted a long, thin scar along the side of his neck that looked fresh. "Hey, you can't say it doesn't work… I mean, remember that business man in Wichita?" I said, returning my attention back to my brother, "Bet the bastard doesn't carry around 100 dollar notes in his wallet anymore…"

"I'd rather we washed dishes for dough," Francis said, shaking his head with a smile, "I think our karma is bad enough without adding stealing to it…"

Our beers arrived, and I leaned back in my chair with a grin, "Doesn't seem so bad right now," I said cheerily. He uncapped his bottle and we raised them simultaneously. "To money," I said, "legitimate, illegitimate and blood soaked," He laughed again and we clinked bottles. "You know, I could get used to that," I said.

"What?"

"You laughing,"

Francis paused, looking thoughtful. "Can't remember the last time we did," He said.

"You and me both, bro," I took a sip of my beer and speared a piece of lettuce with my fork.

Suddenly, Dean and his friend got up from their booth, leaving their half-eaten meals behind. His friend was chatting away on the phone urgently, barely throwing on his jacket as he bolted for the door. Dean followed behind a little slower, scamming one last bite from his burger as he followed suit. He looked up, nodded and winked at me before he swung the diner door open and hurried to their black Impala outside. "You don't see a car like that every day," Francis said, glancing out the window for a moment before shovelling a cut of steak into his mouth.

"You don't say," I replied as I watched them leave the parking lot. "Curiouser and curiouser…"

"Something about those guys makes me a little uneasy," Francis added.

"Something about everybody makes you a little uneasy," I scoffed, even though I felt the same way. Something about Dean, his million dollar smile, the scar on his neck and his classic car didn't quite add up.

Francis smirked and reached for his beer bottle, "That, Taylor, is because most people are either packin', hustling' or have the kind of past you only read about in Jeff Lindsay books,"

"So in other words, most people are… us?" I said, amused.

He shrugged and continued eating.

I wondered for a moment, but could barely picture those two knock around pretty boys doing what we do. When I wasn't swiping a few bucks from pockets, and when Francis wasn't playing bus-boy for a week, we were out doing our real job. We didn't have a name for it until we stumbled upon some people who happened to be in the same line of business. Apparently there were a whole lot of people out there with similar sad stories; they lost someone to something they didn't even know was real, and then they spent the rest of their lives hunting that thing down. So the job title willed itself up organically; we were hunters, and the list of things we tracked seemed to grow longer and longer as the months passed… but mostly, there was just the one big game we continuously searched for.

In an old ranch in Missouri, we stumbled upon a group of hunters that were organizing a group bust. There was Henry Cole who had been hunting the werewolf who killed his brother, there was Kurt and Richard Wesley who were hunting a mating pair of Ghouls who had killed his wife, Laurence Phillips and Craig Walsh were hunting a shifter who had killed their best friend Greg- and was currently out there wearing his skin, and there was the Bakers who had been on the road for 5 years… they had been hunting down a demon who killed their twin daughters, and they had caught the son of a bitch 3 years ago… but after living the way they had… there was no going back to normalcy, so they kept at it. That night in Missouri, they were working on busting an entire nest of Vampires and wondered if we wanted in. Apparently Mrs. Baker, an expert in Tarot and palmistry, could also read auras, and she had seen our hunter hued bubbles a mile off. Francis and I didn't know a lot about Vampires, so we declined and skipped town that night after scamming some food and telling our share of hairy stories.

The one where Francis and I killed a Windego in Little Rock was a favourite; Francis was rarely as animated as he was when he was telling that story… especially the punch line where we backed into it with our truck and blew off his head with our father's old shotgun. We were still picking out bits of the thing from underneath the battered Ford.

"Think they stole that Chevrolet?" I wondered out loud. Francis didn't even look up to answer;

"Probably,"

I looked down at the beer bottle in my hand and twisted it around on the table. Suddenly, my eye caught a glimpse of something that made me smirk; Dean had written his name and number on the side of the bottle.

Bobby Singer paced as he read to himself in the silence of the time capsule he called a home. "Ijit left his name and number on this broad's bottle?" He grumbled, taking off his trucker cap to scratch his head. "I gotta school that boy on the dangers of lendin' out information like that… _again_!"

"Calm down, Bobby," Sheryl laughed, "Boys will be boys," She said. "And plus, this girl wasn't exactly the wrong crowd… got any beers?"

"In the fridge- look, Sheryl, can't you just-"

"Keep readin', Bobby… you'll see what I'm talking about," Sheryl said.

Bobby didn't like all this pussy-footing around, but Bobby also knew that once Sheryl was fixed on doing something her way, there wasn't any chance of hell of talking her out of it. Bobby Singer just kept reading through the scribbles and coffee stains and random doodles on the old, dirt stained pages.

Adapted from the diary of Taylor Aubrey Nelson (continued):

December 6th - 7th 2009

I can't remember a time when we weren't running. We were always running; all the time. We were dodging monsters, and ghosts, and even the cops sometimes. When it comes down to it, you can bet your bottom dollar we won't be calmly walking to the exits…

We lived out of the little bit of money we carried around in our pockets, and in an old metal hard candy box we hit underneath the front passenger seat of our 1967 Ford F-100. We had a couple of other things in there too; five silver bullets, a sprig of rosemary and dried holly- you know, to keep evil spirits away.

It was hard work getting used to these new conditions, but whenever I could, I strayed back to old habits. Buying CDs was something I couldn't stop- not for the life of me. I swiped a CD player from a car a few months back and made my brother Francis grudgingly install it into our truck. It's amazing how quickly I took to stealing, maybe my conscience was always wearing a little thin, and after all the unholy things I'd seen, it finally fell apart.

"You're screwing up my girl," Francis said as he pulled out wires from the new hole he'd made in the car. "She's not gunna know what the hell this is…"

"She's a car, doofus," I huffed, and watched him work. "She doesn't _know_ anything…"

My brother and I had an interesting relationship; it was strange- we were so much closer before all this… even though we spend almost every waking moment together nowadays. We barely talked or share things anymore; he just drove and I just read or flicked through CDs and radio channels.

We had spent 9 months on the road tracking down the demon that killed our parents and our youngest sister Carrie. It seemed like a worthwhile venture; dad hadn't prepared a heck of a lot for when he got wiped off the face of the earth, and well, who was I kidding? I wouldn't have made it through 4 years of college anyway. Hunting monsters seemed like a job I could do, as long as my brother stuck around that is.

At least that's what I constantly tell myself. Sometimes I lie awake in bed and wonder what it would be like to live outside these four walls of fear and violence. Somewhere in an alternate universe; in another life, I would still be going by my real name: Taylor Aubrey Nelson, a name I always hated until I stopped having the right to use it. Being on the run is messy like that… the things you have to leave behind are sometimes the things that make you _you._ But in this alternate universe, I guess Taylor Aubrey Nelson would be living a pretty normal life, dating a pretty normal guy, and taking pictures of bridges and animals and sunsets… and she'd be working at some mid-town gallery somewhere nice. And she'd spend her days telling people about the paintings that lined the walls; from their intricate brush strokes, to the stories they told. No one would care of course, because they'd be rich, busy people- the only kind that could afford paintings like that, but she would care… _I would care._ Detail is so important… intricacies, smudges, scars, hair-line fractures and wrinkles… what makes you _you; _a name like Taylor Aubrey Nelson.

Francis, I believe, had a distant dream in his head too. But for now, he was so fixated on catching Amon, I guess he was beginning to lose sight of that kind of stuff. For now, finding a lead in Chicago was enough.

"Taylor!" Francis' voice echoed in the darkness behind me. I heard the sound of his boots crushing twigs and crunching through dry grass as he approached. "Let's go west,"

"West?" I said in a hushed whisper. "If you were a big bad mother, would you be out here in the moon light or down in the darkness?"

"We don't go looking for it in its own backyard, Taylor- you know that," Francis huffed, "That's just suicide."

I froze suddenly, and a painful five seconds of silence passed.

"What's wrong?"

"Hear that?" I whispered back.

"What?" Francis paused, "No…"

"Exactly," I said, "Everything's… quiet…"

I could hear Francis' heart pounding, and I bet _she_ could too. I lifted up my shotgun.

"I think she came looking for us,"

Suddenly there was a heart-stopping roar and I heard the thing charge through the shrubs and trees. "Run, Goddammit, run!" Francis called out to me, exasperated as we bolted towards the edge of the forest where the truck was parked.

After all that running… somehow it took me awhile to get into gear again. I just stood there, staring, watching as a massive black shadow and piercing yellow eyes exploded out of the darkness.

"Taylor!"

I heard its snapping teeth as it barked wildly, and the wind whistling as it moved across the long fur on its back. I heard the sound of its paws pounding on the ground as it came closer. I heard the sound of both its hearts beating in synchronised unison with each other; a heavy bass delivery that echoed inside my skull. Still, I could not move.

"Hey!" I heard a voice tear through my trance as a body came crashing onto mine. Before I knew it, I was enveloped in a pair of arms and being carried off like the damsel in distress I never wanted to be.

"Wha-" before I could finish my complaint, I heard two explosive shot gun shots and instinctively buried my head in the shoulder of whoever it was that was carrying me.

"It's okay, it's going to be okay," I heard him coo. I felt faint, and as I looked upwards to the sky, I felt my body go limp. The stars up ahead danced in circles, and my vision seesawed in and out of focus.

When we got to the clearing I heard my brother's voice screaming out in the distance. "Get away from her! Get away!"

"Hey, lady, you have to stay with me okay?" I heard the stranger say to me as he lay me down on the grass. My head rolled to the side and I saw our truck.

"You hear me, you son of a bitch? Get away from her!" Suddenly the stranger flew backwards, hitting the ground with a thud.

"You asshole!" The stranger yelled back angrily, holding his shoulder where my brother had kicked him. "I just saved her life!" He shouted as my brother walked up to him, pointing a shotgun at his face.

"D-don't…" I murmured on the ground. I looked at the stranger, and as the moonlight hit his face, I realized who he was.

"Sammy!" A more familiar voice called out from a fair distance away, and my brother switched to aiming at the approaching young man. "Hey, hey, hey- whoa!" The man said as he stepped towards my brother. "We just saved your sister you bastard, and this is how you repay us?"

"D-Dean?" I muttered, too quiet for them to hear.

"Where the hell did you even come from?" Francis spat angrily. "How do I know you're not demons playing some kind of screwed up trick?"

"Because we're not, dammit- and if you fire that gun, you're gunna be feeling awfully stupid," came the reply.

"And also because I'm here," Another gruff voice filled the air. All I saw was a pair of dark shoes and the tail of a trench coat. And then my brother fell to the ground.

"Francis…" I tried to speak, but my throat suddenly felt like it was filled with knives and razor blades and barbed wire-

"It'll be okay," I saw the man in a trench coat loom over me. He had dark hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness. "Taylor, it'll be okay," He spoke. He raised two fingers to my forehead and my vision cross faded to a bright white light.

"You did a good job with those boys, Bobby," Sheryl said as she watched the paddocks in the distance through an opened window. "Damned near lost their lives saving that girl,"

"John taught them well," Bobby replied; his eyes still glued to the pages of Taylor's journal.

"You too, Bobby," Sheryl said. They looked up at each other then and smiled. "I know you did a lot for them… I know you were probably more of a father to those boys than John ever could've been."

"Now hang on-"

"It's alright, Bobby… I knew John too, don't forget," She said, raising up her hands towards Bobby who looked like he was about ready to charge, "He was a good man, just too darned broken to care for those kids the way they needed him to… I would've been the same,"

Bobby nodded silently, and turned back to the journal. "What the hell was this girl and her brother hunting anyway? Some kind of Werewolf?"

"Well," Sheryl murmured as she moved to the dining table to pour herself another glass of dry Whiskey. "This is where the story gets a little… well, twisted,"

"How so?"

"Well that thing they were hunting back there… it was a Calopus,"

"A Calopus?" Bobby thought he had heard wrong, and then he wished he had, "Wait a minute… you mean those extra-special-issue hell hound with antlers coming out of their giant heads inbuilt with razor sharp no-nonsense teeth?"

"That's the one,"

"These kids just went after something like that? On their own?" Bobby was at his wit's end just thinking about it.

"It's amazing how many hunters get gutted out there because they never read the research right," Sheryl said, an ironic smile across her lips… almost as if she remembered an instance where she had fallen into a similar scenario.

"Wait a minute… if it was a hell hound they were trackin' out there…" Bobby began and Sheryl looked to him seriously; waiting for him to arrive at the punch line. "It- but… wait a minute…" He struggled, flipping back through pages. "Hang on, she said she saw the damned thing; it had yellow eyes and long fur along it's back… there's no way she could've seen a hell hound- ain't no one ever _sees_ a hell hound!" He snapped his head up and his eyes met Sheryl's. "Those things are invisible to humans," He said.

"Exactly..." Sheryl said and took a sip of her Whiskey before adding; "I told you… it's a story you have to read for yourself,"

She stood up and walked towards him, taking the journal from his hands as he stood gaping for a moment.

"I'll reiterate the rest," Sheryl said, pacing towards the living room, her boots clunking loudly on the hardwood floors. "But you gotta tell me why it is these boys are messin' around out there with a guardian angel named Castiel,"

Bobby gulped down and walked into the living room, grabbing the bottle of Whiskey off the dining table as he made his way over to his tattered floral couch. As he sat down in silence to pour himself a drink, he wondered how much about the Winchester's sorry story would be worthwhile conversation between him and a long lost best friend. He felt the springs in the couch under him tense and condense, and he thought about how he could never bring himself to throw the damned lumpy thing away. His eyes then looked up to see Sheryl turning through pages of the weathered journal in her hands, and he decided he had to know… _Who the hell was Taylor Aubrey Nelson?_


	2. Chapter 2

Heartless 2

"Who's afraid of the big bad Winchesters?"

Bobby was counting on yet another quiet day to himself. He figured the day would just wind around like usual; some fixing up around the house, feeding and checking on the dogs that patrolled the junk yard, and then, God-willing, a call about something he could obliterate with a shotgun full of rock salt. Unfortunately for Bobby though, Sheryl Palmer showed up, and she had one hell of a story to tell.

She flipped through the pages of the old moleskin journal as she spoke intermittently, finishing her sentences with a sigh and another sip of her beer. Bobby nursed his wry nerves with a couple of glasses of Whiskey and tried to keep up. "Now," He began, "You know why Castiel's part of the team now," He said, "You're up to speed?" He nodded at her and she nodded back.

"Did Dean ever talk about hell to you?" She asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"What?"

"Just wondering," She said, "I mean, you know, in case I wind up there someday,"

Bobby grunted, shaking his head. "I'm gunna go ahead and pretend you didn't say that, Sheryl," he said, and she laughed it off.

"Fair enough, Bobby,"

"So come on now," He said, sounding a little exasperated, "Tell me about this Taylor girl… and why she's so special," he asked and Sheryl flipped through the pages.

"Alright, here we go," Sheryl said, and cleared her throat. "December 9th…"

Adapted from Taylor's journal (continued):

December 9th 2009

Calopuses aren't your average B-grade horror monsters. A lot of the time, their barks and howls have them mistaken for werewolves, but going after one of these with a few silver bullets in a revolver will bring your hunting trip to a short and disappointing end. Their names vary as much as their legends do; sometimes they're called Calopuses, sometimes Chatloups, and other times Aptaleons- most of the time, people just call them hellhounds. With that many names, you can only imagine the kind of research I would've had to do to get a real, solid, truthful picture on these giant, furry bastards. And if you know anything about me, you'd know that studying, taking notes and cross referencing isn't exactly one of my strong points… I'm more of a "too long, did not read" kind of girl. It never really got us into any trouble before though; this was the first time.

If I had known what the Winchesters knew about these demonic wolf-beasts, I would've talked my brother out of going into the woods that night. I would've told him that hellhounds (from your average soul-collector kind, to your Calopus: giant-beast-with-antlers kind) were impossible for the human eye to see, and that we would've had to create some kind of rock salt and solid iron bomb to actually bring one down. We probably would've stayed back at the motel and strategized our next move; trying to figure out where Amon was without going out into the woods looking for him. Then we would've probably fallen asleep and left town the next day, hot on the trail of some other long road to ruin. I never would've found out that Dean Winchester was a hunter, I never would've met his brother Sam, or their very own friendly neighbourhood angel Castiel… and I never would've found out I was… _different_.

"No, you listen to me!" I heard my brother's voice shouting from the other room as I awoke in some foreign bed. "I'm going to go out there and get my truck, and come back here for Taylor… you do not speak to her, you do not wake her, you do not for the love of God lay a hand on her- you got me?" He was out with a stamping of heavy boots on wooden floors and a slam of the door.

"Geez, guy sure has an attitude," I heard Sam say.

"Yeah, and this coming from Mr. Sunshine pants over here, huh," Dean replied. It was an unmistakeable voice; rough, deep and choc-full of testosterone.

"Calm yourselves," I heard a third voice speak- the one of the dark haired man in a trench coat. "He's had a difficult night,"

"Yeah, well it could've been worse- he could've lost his sister out there…" Dean said. "I mean, that there is what happens when you get a couple of amateurs on the job,"

_Amateurs?_ I stirred in bed, as quietly as I could, and turned as much as my sore neck could manage. I flipped over painfully and saw a small light coming from the door to the lounge left ajar. We were in some sort of log cabin, and from the sound of the cars passing by outside, I imagined we were right on the main road running through the small town.

"Should've stopped him… crap- it's snowing outside… can you believe this?" Sam said. Sound of footsteps followed a "Where are you going?" from Sam.

"Check on the girl," Dean's voice said and I flattened myself instinctively to the bed, hoping for the mattress to simply swallow me up. "You know, make sure she's still alive and all,"

"She's fine, Dean," The gruff third voice said and the footsteps towards my room door stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief, "Perhaps it's best if we just leave her be,"

Footsteps moved away from the door. By now I was certain of two things; that the pretty boys were hunters after all… and that they were a lot better at it than us. Who they were exactly was any one's guess… but they were obviously out here hunting the same thing. Turns out we weren't the only ones crazy enough to go after a fully grown Calopus.

"I'm not so sure they're amateurs anyway," Sam said.

"What're you talking about?" Dean demanded. I heard them pace through the momentary pause.

"Well, at least she isn't- I mean, she was saying all that stuff… what was that?" Sam trailed off for a second, and then added; "It's crazy but… it was almost like she was talking to it…"

"She was talking to a hellhound?" Dean scoffed.

I felt my heart sink; _What the hell?_

"I mean, is that possible?" Sam asked, the worry in his voice almost debilitating me.

"It is possible," The third man said, "She is… _marked_,"

"What?" I whispered to myself before clasping a hand heavy over my mouth. _Crap…_ The voices stopped outside for a moment, and only the sound of the crackling fire filled the air.

"What're you talking about, Cas?" Dean asked, breaking the silence. I sighed again and continued to breathe.

"She bears the mark of a damned vessel," Cas replied.

"You know it makes me feel uneasy when you swear," Dean said.

"No," Cas retorted, "I meant damned as in… rejected, scorned… in exile,"

"What do you mean?" Sam piped up, "As in she was possessed once? Or-"

"Yes, she was… some time past, but I'm not sure exactly when," Cas replied.

My mind reeled at their words… could it be possible? Who were these people who seemed to know so much about me?

"By who?" Dean demanded- always an energetic buzz of action in his voice.

"I am uncertain," Cas said, "But I could find out,"

"And what do we do with that information? Is she dangerous?" Dean asked.

"No, she probably has no recollection of it even happening… she probably has no recollection of attempting to talk to the beast tonight either- she appeared to be in a heavy trance," Cas said.

I thought about the swirling stars above me and the feeling in my throat after- like I had been screeching at the top of my lungs… even when I don't remember saying a word. Then I thought of the sound I heard inside my skull; the Caloupe's beating hearts… in unison… I could _hear _it…

"So what do you mean when you say _damned_ vessel?" Sam asked.

"It means that a demon once possessed her, and was killed while he was still using her as a vessel…"

"That's possible?" Sam asked, "I thought that usually means the vessel dies too,"

"Indeed, hence the occurrence is very rare, I'm unsure of how this might have come to be with Taylor. But damned vessels are like open doorways to light and dark, they can at anytime be usurped by a bad or good power, and they're overtly sensitive to both," He explained, "Now she exists in a plane between life as we know it, and the other-world; she's piercing the veil,"

"So she's practically living in her own personal purgatory?" Sam said, "That's insane… and she has no idea?"

"It would seem so," Cas replied.

"No," I said, standing at the door with the quilt from the bed wrapped around me, "I had no idea…"

"Uhh…" Sam began.

"Yeah, I heard all of that," I said, "I'm sorry… but… who are you guys?"

It turns out Sam and Dean Winchester were brothers, and they were doing this job since they were in diapers. From the looks on their faces, they were going after much bigger game… it was obvious running into us and the Caloupe was sheer serendipity. They were travelling with Castiel, an angel; the third man in a trench coat.

"So who are you hunting exactly?" Sam asked me.

"Amon," I said, sitting across from the Winchesters and Castiel at a small rickety table in their cabin lounge. "That's his name anyway… we just followed the Caloupe because apparently he hangs around them- I mean, those things are rare enough as it is," I said. "I never saw one in person before… I mean… whoa,"

"Wait, you saw it?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Yeah," I said, "Why?"

"You saw… a hell hound?" Dean asked in disbelief, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah…" I repeated.

There was an unnerving stunned silence then, from all three of the men before me. I looked back at them, confused;

"What?"

"So the boys know?" Bobby said, sounding a little annoyed. "Damned ijits didn't even bother telling me about this when I saw them last month? Or all that time in between?"

"Calm down, Bobby," Sheryl said, "I doubt they knew how important she was… or if they have any idea now,"

"They could've said something," Bobby grumbled.

"Anyway, here's where it gets interesting..."

"More interesting?" Bobby said, "God's sake…"

Adapted from Taylor's journal (continued):

December 9th 2009 (continued).

On the way back to our motel, the snow had really picked up, and we were the only ones on the road driving through the powder. Only the sound of the windshield wipers working double time broke the silence between my brother and me for most of the ride. We hadn't left the Winchester brothers on good terms; when Francis stormed in to pick me up, he was all blood-shot eyes and rage, and he didn't like the fact that they were talking to me… let alone trying to convince us to stay with them for the night. In all honesty, I thought it was a good idea too… if there was a safe place in Chicago, it was with the Winchesters.

"That's why you thought I was safe," I said suddenly, making Francis turn to me suddenly before sighing and concentrating on driving again. "You couldn't see it running towards me…"

"We were careless," Francis said in that discussion-over tone he inherited from our father. "I should've read the research…"

"Don't you get it?" I said, feeling my face flush red as tears welled up in my eyes, "Didn't you hear what they said?"

"Taylor-"

"I could see it… I could hear it- and I could talk to it, I had no idea I was talking to it…" I said, a rush of panic surging through my veins. "I'm a freak…"

"You're not!" Francis shouted suddenly, rendering me speechless. I stared at him, then the dashboard with wide eyes. "You're not a freak," He said, softer. "Those guys are… one of them thinks they're a freakin' angel… And I saw hex bags over the front door. Whatever they're mixed up in- well, I don't wanna know." He said, sounding troubled as we pulled into the motel driveway. "We'll get supplies tomorrow morning and leave the next day,"

"But we-" I began.

"We have to keep going, but we'll take one day off… you need the rest," He said and got out of the car. I sighed heavily to myself. _I guess that's that…_

The next day was spent in dull silence, we just went about our duties as usual; stocking up on non-perishables, ammo and some new clothes to replace the ones stained with blood. I didn't attempt any conversation- I think I asked him what the time was once, but that was it. I had my own dark thoughts to wade through, so I didn't bother to ask him about his. He would be gone for hours at a time without ever leaving the room.

"Where are you going?" He piped up from the kitchen table when I was sneaking quietly out the front door.

"Just out," I replied, and waited for a response. I saw his silhouette move in the darkened kitchen, backlit against the moonlit window in front of him. "I need some fresh air… a walk will do me some good I think,"

"Be careful," He said quietly, the heaviness in his voice was almost enough to talk me out of leaving at all. But I had to get out…

"I know," I wished there were more to say, but there wasn't anything else to waste my breath on. I waited for a moment to see if he would say anything else; "This place is a little shifty," or "Take the truck if you have to," or maybe even "Pick up some milk, will you?" But he said nothing. I shut the door and made tracks down the snow covered driveway. I felt the burden on my shoulders lift – though only slightly, as I took in a deep breath of ice cold air and left the musky air of the motel room behind me.

I can't believe how many times I had wished to get out of the suburban hell I had grown up in and just hit the road already- all those times I ran away and thought I'd just spend the rest of my life on the road… all those times I dreamt of being anywhere but in the suffocating walls of my family home... I sighed, my breath forming a cloud of mist before me. This had to be the text book example of "Be careful what you wish for".

Nowadays, I'd give anything to be back in my cramped, messy bedroom, or fighting over the bathroom with my sister Carrie, or even just sitting at yet another awkward attempt at a family dinner. I guess the grass is always greener…

I stopped short, hearing something break the silence. I heard the soft beating of wings, and looked upwards, peering through the darkness and expecting to see an owl.

"Can't sleep?" I heard a deep voice speak. I whipped around and was met with a dark haired man in a trench coat, standing just a few feet away from me and leaning against a tree. "I can relate," He said.

I managed a soft smile, "You know, just magically appearing behind someone in the darkness isn't exactly good social etiquette,"

A very faint smile graced his lips, and I wondered if Castiel ever really, truly smiled at all- for he seemed uncomfortable at even attempting to do so. "My apologies," He said, "Dean complains about this constantly,"

"I bet he does," I said, scoffing.

"Is something troubling you?" Castiel asked, furrowing his brow.

I raised an eyebrow, "Are you kidding me?" I said, "What _isn't_ troubling me… its winter in Chicago, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've only got six dollars in my pocket-"

"I'm sorry to hear that,"

"No," I said, looking up into his blue eyes that were still boring into my skull, "You don't care, you're just trying to figure out if I'm bad news or not,"

There was silence for awhile, and suddenly the conversation turned into a sour stalemate. Of all the bad fights I had picked over the years and this year in particular, picking an argument with an "Angel of the Lord" was easily the dumbest move I've ever made. I didn't really know a lot about angels; only that they came from heaven, they could teleport, and for some reason, they dressed pretty damned snazzy. While I didn't know much else, I had guessed that rubbing out an insignificant little blemish on the earth like me wouldn't be hard work for Castiel… and if he wanted to do it, he probably would've done it already.

"You're wrong," He said, stepping forward and looking down at the tracks his shoes made in the snow. "I do care …"

"Why?" I said, looking at him uncertainly.

He looked up into my eyes again, that tiny hint of a smile on his lips once more. "We are in a war," he said, "And you are one of the few soldiers we have… you are," He paused, probably for effect, "Important,"

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I just stood there, stared at him and did neither. I was a middle child, a loner at school, and a real-life nobody-in-particular… I never thought I'd hear the word _important_ to describe me, but here I was, standing opposite a celestial being that held unfathomable cosmic power in the palms of his hands alone, and he was telling me I was actually worth giving a damn about. Like I said, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Your brother," He said, stepping closer until he was standing opposite me in the middle of the empty road. "He doesn't trust us,"

"Uh," I began, searching for the appropriate words, "He doesn't trust anyone but me and his shotgun… I wouldn't take it personal,"

"I guess that is appropriate behaviour given his circumstance," Castiel said, and he seemed to flit off into a pensive state with his gaze turned towards the dark horizon. "When was your family killed?"

I looked up at him, my mind reeling in shock as I wondered how he had managed to say something like that in such a clinical, unaffected tone; like he was asking about the weather or enquiring about the selection of pies at a local diner.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said heavily, "I was just… making conversation…"

"Then talk about the weather or cars or…" I paused for a moment. Love it or hate it, Castiel had somehow cornered me into a real conversation about real things… and here I was trying to figure out a way to get out of it. My gaze hit the ground as I felt my buried emotions break the surface. "February 14th," I said. "This year," I realized then that it had been exactly 9 months.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," I said, "Or at least, I can't remember… Francis found me," Small snippets of memories came flooding back like a runaway train that had run out of tracks. "I was the only one who survived," I said, "Francis thinks it was a demon, he said the place smelled of sulphur and the damage it had done… well, it couldn't have been anything else. We've been tracking it ever since,"

"Amon?" Castiel asked, and I nodded. "You think he's here?"

"I guess," I sighed, "If it's not then something else is," I said.

"Hmm…" He floated off into pensive thought for awhile, and then looked at me again, "Amon is a dangerous demon," He said, "He's mad with rage and power. Going after him is a foolish decision,"

"With all do respect, Castiel," I began, "We know," Castiel cocked his head and I let out a shaky sigh. "It's become our lives now, and I don't think we can ever walk away from this without Amon's head on a stake,"

"Is that you speaking, or your brother?" Castiel asked. It was the most painful question posed to me in the world. I felt the edge of its blade burrow deep in my skin and its hilt splinter out across my flesh. My heart sank, my stomach twisted up in knots and my body geared into fight or flight mode.

"Are you really an angel?" I asked, sounding bitter as I fought back that horrible choking feeling in my throat as tears welled up in my eyes.

He looked at me, solemn, "You believe in so much evil, why do you find it so difficult to believe in so much good?"

It began to snow. I stared at him, the dull street light above us casting a pseudo-halo around him as small flakes of snow cascaded down. For a moment- a split second fraction of time, I truly saw Castiel for what he really was.

He was bathed in a golden hue and his eyes glowed a bright, ice blue… and in a moment so short, I wasn't sure if it was clarity or delirium, I saw dusty gray wings stretching out from his back and almost encircling me.

I staggered backwards a little, and the golden hue dissipated. "I told you," Castiel said as a single tear ran down my face, "You are important,"

"You tellin' me she saw an angel in his true form and her eyes didn't explode out of her skull?" Bobby blurted out, "I'm tellin' you now, this is impossible!"

"Exactly what I thought," Sheryl sighed, reclining on the couch with her fingers still stuck in the journal as it flipped shut. It was getting late in the day now and the clouds rolled in across the sky outside, casting shadows across the floors of the living room as the sunlight dissipated. "I told you, didn't I?" She said.

"How do you know this isn't some kind of hogwash anyway?"

"Because it all adds up, Bobby… wait, I'll read out the rest to ya', there's more you know,"

"Wait a minute…" Bobby stood up, "If the boys don't know about these details then they oughta- I'm calling them in right now, and wherever they are, they better get here before you finish tellin' me the rest of this crazy story of yours,"

"As you wish," Sheryl smiled and Bobby walked off to call the Winchesters.


	3. Chapter 3

Heartless: Episode 3

"Last Night On Earth"

"Spoke to Dean," Bobby announced as he returned to the living room. "He said him and Sam will be here tomorrow morning if they leave now," He said and fell onto the couch with a sigh. Sheryl looked at him expectantly, "I told them to leave now," He added, and she smiled.

"Good," She said, "Are they gunna bring that guardian angel of theirs?"

Bobby shrugged, "I guess," He said. He hadn't thought about it, Castiel was just as helpful as a Christmas decoration nowadays anyway. The last time all of them were in a room together, he just peered out the window the whole time and said a grand total of six words; "I think so", in regards to some research Sam had done. And later on, "Sounds good, Dean," in response to Dean's plan to track down one of Lucifer's goons. The boys didn't seem perturbed by their angel's slow descent into mute-dom, Dean reasoned that it was probably a side effect of being cast out of Heaven. Bobby Singer on the other hand, couldn't care less. "Why do you care?" Bobby asked, looking at Sheryl who stared down at the book in her hands.

"Hmm," She pondered for a moment, "You know what?" She said as she got up, "I'll tell you the rest of this story over some Chinese," she smiled, "Let's go, Bobby, I'm driving,"

Bobby sat dumbfounded for awhile, then shrugged and followed her out the door.

Adapted from Taylor's journal (continued)

December 9th 2009

I took off into the forest faster than I could think. "Taylor!" I heard his voice call out behind me, but I kept running. I didn't really know why at the time, it just felt like the only reasonable reaction to such a sight; to such a discovery. Who I was; everything that I had once thought defined me was wrong. I was not Taylor Aubrey Nelson; a shot gun wielding college dropout; a demon hunting loner; a tag along on her brother's journey into self destruction. This was a new one for the list: Taylor Aubrey Nelson the psychotic psychic from New Jersey.

Life was supposed to be simple, but for me, it never was. I was a misunderstood middle child, a weird kid at school, and the only survivor of a massacre at my family home. Dad was gone, mom was gone, lil' sis was gone… as I ran, I suddenly wondered why the hell Francis and I were even hunting Amon down. He always operated on the notion: What did we have to lose? But he should've been asking: What did we have to gain anymore? Killing Amon; that greedy bastard from the 7th gate of hell was one of those million to one deals, and at the end of a potentially non-existent show down, what was going to happen? Did Francis expect us to go back to living normal lives? Or were we going to be hunting stuff down forever? I knew then for certain; I could probably never go back. No matter how much I wanted to… I could never be normal; especially not with what I know now.

I scraped my arm against a prickly thorn bush as I ran past it. I felt blood trickle down as tears blurred my vision. Suddenly, without warning, Castiel appeared in front of me. I crashed into him and he held me steady, grabbing onto my wrists and looking down at me sternly. "I'm an angel, Taylor," He said, "You cannot outrun me."

Finally, after trying so hard to keep it together for 9 long months… I broke down. It felt horrible, and the weight of the world on my shoulders only grew with every ugly sob I choked out. "I never wanted this," I said, stammering as I felt my legs give way. Castiel held me up and I rested my face against his chest; I felt his resistance, but I didn't care, I embraced him and slowly, I felt his arms envelop me carefully. "I can't be this person, I can't… I just wanna go back, I just wanna turn around and go home and pretend that all this stuff never happened…" I whined. "Please… you have to help me," I said, "You have to… to… do it,"

"I can't take this power you have away from you," Castiel said, and I heard the sadness in his voice, "If I could heal you of it, I would, but it is not that simple,"

I looked up at him and saw his bright blue eyes staring down at me, watchful, gentle and caring. "No," I said, "I didn't mean that… I meant…" He cocked his head as I spoke, "I meant you… you have to kill me," I said, "Please,"

He let me go, taking a step backwards and letting me collapse to the ground. "You know not what you ask,"

"I do," I said, "I can't live like this anymore… I-I can't…"

"You are special, Taylor,"

"I don't care, I don't want to be special… I don't want to see things that nobody else can," I said, "I just want… quiet… peace…" I sighed, wiping away my tears as my body shuddered through another sob. "I just want it all to stop."

Castiel crouched down next to me, and I felt his hand touch the side of my face. When I looked up, I saw that there were tears in his eyes. "I know," He said, "I am sorry the path you have had to walk has been so difficult, Taylor… I am," He cooed, "I promise I will do everything within my power to help you, but you must keep going,"

"Why?" I asked quietly.

"Because we are in a war," He repeated, "And you are one of the few soldiers we have… you are important,"

Almost an hour away from Oak Forest an 18 year old girl had scratched the skin right off her right arm in Elmwood Park. She would've survived… if only that phantom itch hadn't formed around her wrist. Everyone was baffled, and the papers labelled it a suicide, but the Winchesters knew differently. By the time they had made it to that diner where I first met Dean, another phantom-itch case made it to the press. This time, it was closer; just 20 minutes away in Orland Park. And this time, the 15 year old boy had survived. Adopting their FBI personas; Agent Page and Plant, the Winchesters talked to the boy and found… well, a whole lot of nothing. The boy didn't see or hear anything; no cold spots or sulphur either… just an itch along his collar bone that wouldn't go away. He had dug past at least an inch of skin when his parents found him. They had to restrain their own son from gouging out his trachea.

Thankfully though, Sam was a whole lot better at research than I was, and had figured out the culprit. You see, deep down in that fiery hole that Dante so elegantly wrote about in "The Inferno", there was a whole lot more going on than most people think. Instead of being just a wasteland of death and endless torture, hell was also filled with the same petty things that plagued the earth it scorned; politics and rank. Of course, in hell, politics could get a whole lot more dirty without anyone batting an eyelid… the only real way to derail a powerful demon that has lost favour with the masses would be to throw him out and blacklist him from the party. Demons that get thrown out can never return, and so they roam the earth in exile. Forced to live amongst humans- the things they hate the most, can really take a toll on a demon, and it's not long before they start throwing one hell of a tantrum. These demons, called Ekimmu, create chaos at every turn, causing horrific accidents, murders, disease and even suicides wherever they go. And guess what? They're impossible to see with the naked eye… which I guess is where I came in.

Castiel took me back to the cabin where Dean was still up. "I had my 4 hours," Dean told me when I spotted Sam asleep on the couch, "It's his turn to get some shut-eye." I nodded, it was a system I was familiar with; Francis and I did the same thing… except my big brother liked babying me, and would often let me have the full 8 hours. I guess things were different in the Winchester house- here, there was mutual respect.

I let Dean carry on being Dean for awhile, sitting in silence at the table as he cleaned out his shot gun. He was meticulous and borderline obsessive; cleaning out the barrel like it was made of fine china. For all his lack of social graces, Dean seemed to have quite a lot of respect for his material possessions; the shot gun and that polished car out front were clear indications. Add to that, the fact that he was a good looking Caucasian around the age of 30 made Dean a sure-fire poster boy for violent sociopaths. Like Dexter Morgan, the serial killer from Miami, or Sweeney Todd; the Demon Barber of Fleet Street; Dean's charisma and charm came from the study of human life, not the experience of it. I could tell this job, this day in and day out of slaughter and near-death-experiences had moulded into his life, and walking away from it would mean walking off a cliff into nothingness.

Unlike Dexter and Sweeney Todd though, Dean seemed to have a softer side. He caught me looking and finally put his shot gun away. "So… are you okay?" He asked me, glancing to Castiel as he did.

"It's a lot to take in…" I said, "But I'll be fine I guess,"

"You know we've had our fair share of self discoveries," Dean said, an ironic smile on his face, "If it's any consolation… I know what it's like to get thrown into the deep end like this," I didn't respond, I just stared down at the table in silence. "So," Dean said, trying to revive the dying conversation, "What's your real name anyway?"

I looked up at him and thought for a moment, "Taylor Nancy Thopper," I lied.

"Taylor Nancy Thopper?" Dean repeated, barely swallowing down my response, "T-N-T?"

I smirked, "I was popular in high school,"

"I bet,"

We shared a smile in the silence that ensued; only the sound of the crackling fire and Castiel's footsteps filled the room. I turned and watched as the trench coat wearing angel disappeared into the next room, looking around at the fixtures of the cabin wearily. "He likes pacing," Dean explained.

"Like a cat," I replied, and saw Dean's confused expression, "You know, how they pace their territories… making sure there aren't any intruders,"

"Huh," Dean smirked, "I guess," He took a deep breath in and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his shifting weight. "Bet you didn't see this coming when we met at the diner," He said, stretching.

"Well," I said, "I could tell you were trouble…"

Dean smiled to himself and glanced over at his brother who flipped over on the couch. "You know I'm really grateful you've agreed to help us," He said to me, his gaze still averted, "I know it's hard… but you're gunna save a lot of lives,"

"I hope so,"

"You are," I felt his hand on mine then, and when I looked up at him, our eyes locked. "Trust me,"

"You know I don't know why," I began, "But I do… I trust you guys."

He smiled, turning pensive as he leaned back in his chair again. "If you don't mind me asking, Taylor," He began, "How does your situation… work… exactly,"

"You mean, how do I see things that you don't?" I asked, and he nodded, "I don't know," I said, "I just see them… as plain as you or me, I never knew I wasn't supposed to,"

"You never had even the slightest inkling?"

"That I was a doorway between heaven and hell?" I scoffed, "No, sir, no I did not,"

"You must've thought some of the stuff you were seeing was a little off- I mean, didn't your brother notice?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

I thought for awhile… I could see why Dean was asking the hard questions. It had been 9 months; surely, the truth should've come out sooner. I wondered if Francis had noticed this weird little gift I had for awhile now, and had decided to say nothing. Maybe he was afraid of me, and the things I could see. "I… I could always tell when we came across a demon…" I began, "Their faces… they were so horrible,"

"Hell yeah," Dean said, shaking his head, "I remember that!" I narrowed my eyes at him questioningly and he cleared his throat, "Awhile ago I had a similar predicament- I had hallucinations, saw things no one else could… I even saw a hell hound as the damned thing… nevermind…" He stopped short and stood up to walk towards the window. He looked out, scanning the dark forest outside. "I don't see anything anymore though… main deal is; I know what you're going through,"

"How'd you get it fixed?" I asked. Dean paused for a moment, and then turned his head.

"Long story…" He said, "Truth is, I just kinda woke up one day… and it was gone,"

If there ever were words to hold onto, Dean had just spoken it. I wondered if it was really possible, or if Dean Winchester was playing some sort of mind trick to win my vote of confidence. Is that possible? Could it be? Will I one day wake up and cease to be a freak? The whole idea didn't seem to add up… but like I said, for some reason- and I couldn't figure out why, I trusted him anyway.

"We should move now," Castiel said as he came back into the room.

"I'll wake up Sammy," Dean replied and walked off towards his brother.

"Wait," I said, stopping both men short, "I should tell Francis… he'd want to know-"

"That would not be a good idea," Castiel said gruffly, "Your brother does not trust us… and he will ask you to abandon this mission,"

"I'm pretty sure he'll realize I'm gone," I said, "He could help,"

"We'll be back before morning," Castiel said, "I sincerely doubt involving your brother would come to any good at all,"

"But…" I began a retort- but could not think of any other words to follow.

"I agree with Cas," Dean put in as he walked into the living room, "We should keep your brother out of this."

Dean insisted against Castiel's preferred mode of transportation; instant teleportation from one place to another, via his angelic powers. Instead, we packed ourselves into the old Impala and went for a 20min long drive to Orland Park. 20min was a lot longer when there was nothing but classic rock and the steady breathing of your travel buddies to listen to.

The old car struggled to heat up in the cold Chicago night, but she managed the slippery snow-framed roads pretty decently. I knew Francis would kill to take it for a spin… perhaps a little too literally, considering who owned the Chevrolet Impala. I wasn't exactly sure why Francis hated the Winchesters so much, after all him and Dean seemed to have way too much in common. They were both obsessive, hell-bent on ripping apart the world for justice, and seemed to think their cars were alive. On top of that, they both shared the gag-worthy love for classic rock… and only classic rock.

Suddenly, a familiar song came on the radio; Last Night On Earth by Green Day. Dean reached for the FM button and my hand moved forward on it's on volition to grab his shoulder. "No, wait," I said, "Leave it on," He didn't seem happy about it, but he left it playing anyway. I saw Sam smile a little in the rear view mirror.

"Finally," Sam sighed, "Some real music…" He smirked. Dean scoffed, looking irritated.

I slumped back in my seat and hugged myself, listening to the lyrics as the song washed over me. It was so fitting… _after all, tonight could very well be my last night on earth. _I looked up at the fogged up window beside me and wrote on it with my finger. It was a phrase that I had used for years, but had never known the real meaning until recently; "The world owes you nothing; it was here first." They were always cool, thought-provoking, and part-pretentious. But now, they were just cruel… but they were the truth.

"Mark Twain," I heard Castiel say beside me. I looked to him and smiled.

"Yep," I replied.

He smiled back.

Sam rattled on a little about the research he had done, and how he figured the hell-reject was still in Orland Park. "There's been a wave of a strange disease that causes skin lesions," He explained, "Most of the cases are pretty minor- well, except for that 15 year old kid." Whatever this Ekimmu was up to, it seemed scattered and unfocused; just a reign of terror and misfortune; a curse on everyone it came in contact with. For all the times the world had blamed God for the terrible things that befell them, I bet not a soul thought to point the finger at a demon that just happened to be having 'one of those days'.

Orland Park was as quaint and neat and downright eerie as a suburb could get, and when we rolled up to the hospital, we were the only car load of people in sight. "A hospital?" I said.

"An Ekimmu is a creature of pure hatred," Castiel said. "The closer it can be to death, disease, and as much self-loathing as possible, the better,"

"And you're sure it's here?" I said, turning to Sam as he handed me a shot gun from the booth of the car.

"Well," He sighed, "You tell me,"

I looked out to the small string of shops just opposite the hospital, and the rows of houses just beyond it. Everything was still and silent; the same ambient soundtrack that played just before a monstrous hell hound exploded out of the forest at Francis and me. It was the theme music for the kind of warriors we were; silent, mysterious, unknown… forgotten by a world who was too far away in their own pretty paved paradise to realize all the ugliness churning below. It was the Last Call- without the bugle horn.

I scaled the steps, following the Winchesters and Castiel. Together, we trudged solemnly through our miserable thoughts into possible demise.

Bobby turned solemn when he read those last words "Together, we trudged solemnly through our miserable thoughts into possible demise". He knew that that was the tagline for his entire life so far. He shut the book for a moment and watched as Sheryl talked to a waiter at the counter, ordering off the menu behind him. He wondered how much more of this tragic story he could get through… and how long he could possibly stave off that choking feeling he felt in his throat. Reading this journal was like staring deep into the abyss… and now it was staring back at him. Slowly, but surely enough, this story was moulding itself into his.

He took off his hat for a moment and rested it on the table. Staring out the window with a heavy sigh, he wondered if Sam and Dean were going to be breaking for the night, or if they were just going to drive all the way through their fatigue. "God speed boys," he said to himself, "God speed."


	4. Chapter 4

Heartless: Episode 4

"The Man Who Sold The World"

Bobby lay awake that night thinking of all the words he had read from the pages of a dirt covered journal. He flipped through the pages idly, his fingers tracing the spine when he reached its final pages… "It don't make a lick of sense," He murmured through the darkness. Sheryl lay half-asleep on his bed, just a few feet away from the couch he was lying on. She sighed and Bobby saw her body heave with the intake and exhalation of a heavy breath.

"The final lines?" She asked.

"Yeah, it's like she ripped out a tonne of pages," Bobby said. "I don't get it… it just ends with this random line-"

"If I knew… I would've thanked him," Sheryl said, and they let the words settle in the hot, silent room.

"Why'd she rip out all those pages… why'd she leave the rest?" Bobby asked.

"Maybe she was in a hurry," Sheryl replied and yawned. After a short pause, she rolled over and peered through the darkness to where she figured Bobby was lying, "You sure about me sleeping in your bed, Bobby… are you comfortable over there?"

Bobby grunted, "It's all yours Sheryl, I don't sleep in that bed anymore, you know that,"

"Huh," Sheryl scoffed quietly, "Just an old man stuck in his ways," She murmured as her heavy eyelids fluttered shut. In the darkness, Bobby let those words circle around in his head. _Just an old man stuck in his ways_… Bobby had lived out his prime years, and his peak had come and gone. He remembered what it was like hunting with John Winchester when they were Sam and Dean's age… and he remembered how careless they had been with their lives. Lives lived on the head of a pin sure cranked past pretty quickly. Before he knew it, he was just an old man… stuck in his ways.

Listlessly, he shuffled through some Polaroids that had fallen from the pages of the journal; shots of a sunset, and shots of an old Ford truck… even a couple of pictures of a black haired muscle man called Francis who scowled and looked away in every shot. And then there were the ones Bobby couldn't help but stare at; three shots of Taylor Aubrey Nelson; a mysterious girl that he knew so much and so little about. She stared straight down the barrel in one of the shots, a candid snap that Bobby imagined Francis took when she was unprepared. She had raven black hair with a single pink streak through her fringe, and light green eyes that stared hauntingly back. Her tan skin was perfect, except for a few cuts and bruises on her arm, and a scuff along her jaw that she must've gotten from all those badly-prepared-for hunting trips. She wore a ripped pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a sullen picture of Kurt Cobain plastered over it. She was just so young… Bobby could barely believe it. But in this line of work, 23 can feel a lot like 33. You have to grow up quickly, and find your feet as soon as you hit the ground running… or you're out.

23 year-old Taylor Nelson, or Taylor Thopper as she often went by while on the road, was no stranger to the concept. There were days, weeks, months- when she felt like 33; a woman who had seen it, been there, done that… and whose growing cynicism was slowly replacing her innocence. Then there were days she felt 53; a woman passing her peak and entering the slow-down-stage of life… a place of perpetual weariness, and of perpetual fatigue. Strangely enough, there'd also be times when she felt 13; when Francis would leave the room to take a phone call, or when he'd refuse to let her drive… or when he'd tell her to stay in, lock the doors, and open it to no one… not even room service. It was confusing, and every day was a contradiction of instructions of how to act and who to be. Taylor Nelson often wondered if she would ever just get a chance to be Taylor Nelson… and if one day, she could just be 23.

Bobby ran through the last pages of her journal again, phrases, lines, moments, and all the strange and haunting scenes already embedded in his mind. "Who the hell are you," Bobby whispered quietly, "Where have you gone?"

Adapted from the journal of Taylor Nelson:  
December 9th 2009

When we reached the doors of the hospital, Castiel stood back as Dean and Sam entered the building. Dean held the door open and waited for me, his eyes darting back to the car to make sure the Impala was still waiting for him like some sort of doting lover. "Aren't you coming?" I asked Castiel who looked distracted by secret thoughts.

"I cannot," He replied, "The demon covers his territory with Enochian magic… I cannot enter,"

"That's how he's been avoiding getting ganked," Dean added, "Every place we've been in this town lately has been smothered in anti-angel crap,"

"What happens if you go in?" I asked, looking at Castiel worriedly.

"I simply can't," He replied, "This is why you're so important, Taylor… you understand don't you?" He rested a hand on my shoulder, "We would not have asked this of you if it wasn't our only option."

I nodded. I knew Castiel felt like he had sinned horribly against me for making me go through with this… and I knew it was weighing down on him like cinder blocks. I wish I could have told him it was okay… and that I was going to be fine… but how do you comfort an angel? Was I supposed to pretend like I had the answers even when a divine messenger of God did not? I let his hand fall from my shoulder as I walked inside.

Dean led the way, his torchlight streaming through the darkened hallways. All the staff and patients were asleep, tucked in hospital beds, draped over reception tables, or sprawled across floors- alive, but lost to the world. Sam checked some of the bodies, "Look," He said, lifting up a nurse's hand that bore a ghastly looking sore. It was a mass of 3 or 4 blisters, framed with hot red and yellowing scar tissue. Some scratch marks around it showed that they weren't new.

"What the hell has this son of a bitch done?" Dean whispered back to his brother, stepping over yet another unconscious doctor.

"Must be a spell," Sam said, "Maybe he's incubating them for later use,"

"Sick bastard," Dean spat as continued down the hallway. Sam stayed next to me, shining his torch light across the rooms with his salt-packed-shotgun in tow. Sam Winchester was an interesting soul, filled with a chilling innocence and naivety for a man of his age and circumstance. It wasn't hard to see that he had a warm and gentle heart that ached to love and be loved… no matter the cost. It was obvious he worshipped his older brother, even if he seemed to have a chip on his shoulder about playing second fiddle; he always took a moment to process when Dean barked orders at him. Even when it was something simple like: "Sam, check that room", Sam would look to his brother like he had just been kneed in the guts and told he was a useless retard, before finally going to his job. For all the wealth of care and generosity that Sam had stored inside the four walls of his 6'5" physique, there was also something very wrong going on inside him. Maybe it took my special skill to see it, or maybe not, but he wore it like an abuse victim wears a scar delivered by their assailant; with so much guilt that it's a wonder he functions at all. There was something different about him; something wrong; maybe it was even evil… maybe he didn't even know. The more I watched him, the more I wondered… but he wasn't the puzzle I was meant to be solving.

"Anything weird, Taylor?" Dean piped up, sounding bored. "I mean, besides the usual avalanche of doctors and nurses we seem to be having here,"

"Nothing," I said, my eyes scanning the waiting room in the paediatric ward. I couldn't help but stare; there were little children littered everywhere. They were pale white like cherubs; morbid Christmas decorations waiting to be put on display. "Wait…" I stopped suddenly, my hand grabbing for Sam's arm. He stopped short and pointed the torch light to where I was looking to. "There's a man…" I said, "He's not looking at us… he's just standing in front of that room," I lifted a finger to point, shakily.

"Where?" Dean said, squinting as he spun around to shine his torch in that direction too. My heart sank and I felt fear boil up inside me. My stomach knotted up into tourniquets. My mouth went dry. I felt sick.

"Wait," Sam said, "What is he wearing?"

"All black," I said, "Like f-for a funeral," I stammered out.

"It's a reaper," He replied, sharing a glance with Dean, "He's no trouble," Sam said.

"Like a grimm reaper?" I said.

"There's probably a whole lot of em' around here," Dean shrugged.

"Maybe he saw the demon," I suggested, my eyes still on the man who appeared unperturbed by our presence. "I could ask him… I mean, they don't attack do they?"

"No," Sam said, a little smile on his face, "I don't know if he'd be up for talking though,"

"Yeah," Dean said, "They're more the staring into space in silence kind," he smirked, "Like Van Halen fans, but less fun,"

"Noted," I said, and stepped over a sleeping nurse in pink scrubs to get to the reaper. "Hey," I called out to the man, "Guy?" I said, "Reaper?"

"Told you," Dean said, and Sam gave him a dirty look, "What?" He replied, "I did, didn't I?"

I started to turn around again when the reaper finally decided to say something. I paused, frozen in place. "You alright, Taylor?" Sam called out. I turned back to face the Reaper who refused to return the favour. He kept staring at the door even as he spoke to me. His voice was quiet, and he spoke in a distant tone that was saturated with a lack of energy or passion. It damned near sucked the air right out of my lungs. It was the voice of death.

"He is here," The reaper said. "I saw him come and feast here, and take his home here too… he will not leave,"

It took me a moment to find my voice again so I could respond, and behind me, Dean called my name for the second time. "You spoke to him?" I asked the reaper.

"We do not speak… but I see him, and he sees me. We do not need to speak… we have no business to discuss," The reaper replied, "He has stopped everything here; made it slow. How will I go if I cannot take her with me?"

I looked to the room door and through the small window on it. Inside, a little girl with blonde hair lay asleep. I thought the reaper sounded almost sad, but his disappointment seemed to stem more from his inability to complete a job. _I suppose the show must go on._

"He's here," I said to Dean and Sam. "The reaper saw him,"

"He is here," The reaper said suddenly and I whipped my head around again to face him. He was still looking away, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. With his husky, deathly voice, he spoke; "He sees you."

Before I could think to warn the Winchesters, we were flying across the room and crashing into a lilac and white pin-striped wall; a flash of blinding white light forcing our eyes shut. A deep rumble resonated through the room as we flew, and I could have sworn everything slowed down- we slow motioned swan dived into the concrete wall. The shot guns lifted out of Sam and Dean's hands, as did the torch lights, and even a nurse's table lined with pills and syringes took flight with us.

"Taylor!" I heard Sam's voice call out to me, distant, hollow, and almost lost in a persistent ringing that filled my aching head. "Taylor!" I slowly opened my eyes, met with the face of a sleeping child beside me. "Taylor!" I was barely able to move my head, but I managed to tilt it upwards just enough to see Sam struggling against the wall just a few feet away. He looked at me, gritting his teeth as he struggled against an unseen force that held him there. "The gun!" He said, before cringing in pain and hanging his head forward. I saw a thick black halo appear around his body, like an electrical force that pulsed from his skin. It took over, snaking over his flesh and travelling through his veins. It wrapped around him as he tossed his head back and screamed, still unable to move. He was drowning in it… his wrath; a sickness that was always inside him; the _wrong_ thing that marred his generosity, his warmth, his brotherly love. Even though I knew he meant me no harm, I was afraid. "Taylor!" He shouted again.

I couldn't see Dean, but as I looked around, I saw the orb of bright light that had pushed us through the room. It lit up the darkened reception area like a supernova of ghostly energy. I flinched, my eyes snapping shut just as I heard Dean scream, assuring me that he was still in the room. When I opened my eyes again, I was somewhere else…

_It was the darndest thing_…

"Taylor?" I heard a calm, familiar voice say to me, "Are you okay?" I felt a gentle hand rest on my shoulder. I looked around, feeling my body move more freely now… I recognized the wooden floors I was lying on immediately. The hand gripped my shoulder, and slowly, I got to my feet.

"Cas?" I said, confused. The angel stared back at me, his head tilted to one side as he studied my shocked expression. "What's going on?" I looked around, and saw an eerily familiar dining room. An oak table stood beside us, inside four walls painted a sunshine-shade of yellow. Heart-shaped placemats were placed around the table- I counted them; there were 5. "Where are we?"

"Your old home," Castiel replied, and his words felt like a million razors sinking in my skin.

"I know where we are, Cas…" I snapped, "What happened to the hospital-"

"You're still there," He said, "You're dreaming, or more rather, re-living a memory,"

"What?" I blurted out. "Why are you here?"

"It's the only way I could follow you inside the hospital," He explained.

"You hitched a ride inside my brain?" I asked; shocked at how little say I had in the matter of keeping out or inviting in an angel to my inner most secrets, memories and dreams.

"You and Dean have an eerie similarity about the way you speak," Castiel replied, sounding like a scientist making an observation about his lab rat.

"Why am I here, Cas," I asked, "Dean and Sam are in trouble,"

Before he could answer, I heard a murmur from the lounge; a quiet whisper that sounded unmistakably like my brother. Every inch of me knew I wasn't going to like what I was about to see, but my feet marched forward towards the room anyway. Slowly and hesitantly, we reached the room, and even though all I wanted to do was run, I forced myself to stay. "I'm right here, Taylor," Castiel whispered to me. "You're not alone,"

My brother Francis was huddled over on the ground, his hands on his head as his body shuddered through terrible sobs. He was covered in the blood of our family that lay beside him, scattered on the floor with their throats slit open in jagged cuts. Their eyes were open… mom… dad… little sis… there was so much blood, so much red- I didn't think it was possible for four people to bleed that much… Yes… four… because I saw myself there too. I was nailed to the wall; crucifixion style, my clothes drenched with blood from a dozen stab wounds. Painted around me in the same stuff was a devil's trap, just like the kind Francis taught me to draw. Just like the ones we used to imprison the demon we found in Wichita. Just like the one I managed to botch in Denver. Just like the one we were planning to trap Amon in…

All that time we spent on the road, I never stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, Francis was so hell bent on killing Amon because he was afraid he was going to kill us first. "This… this isn't right," I said, my eyes welling up in tears. "What happened, Cas?"

"You were dead, Taylor," Castiel said, "Just like your parents and your sister," while those words stung like hellfire, I knew that he was speaking the truth. All those months ago, I stood here as an apparition of a former self, looking in on my brother as he mourned the loss of his entire family. Somehow, I had forgotten… maybe I had somehow willed it out of my mind.

"How…" tears ran down my face and I took a slow step back. I had always wondered _why us… _but never really stopped to ponder the question with the sort of depth it deserved. Why us? Really… Why a normal, middle-class family from New Jersey. Why a couple of parents who went to PTA meetings, church every weekend, and who insisted on celebrating Valentine's Day like it was Thanksgiving? Why a little sister who was on the cheer squad, the glee club and the prom committee? Why me… why Taylor; the professional slacker, the nobody, the punk girl with a camera and a dream. Why all of us… and why not Francis?

"Your brother had an interesting past time," Castiel explained, "He studied demonology, and performed some séances… small things, making small deals to get by… it's how he got the truck, and how your father got his job back the day after he got laid off," He said, "It's how your dog Mercury came back to life and found his way back to your front door… he cared about you a lot, Taylor. He still does,"

"No… not Francis, it doesn't make any sense," I said.

"It's true, Taylor," He explained, "Unfortunately he didn't know enough to stay out of trouble forever… like everyone who plays with fire, he got burned,"

"It can't be…" I said quietly, refusing to believe it even as the hard evidence stared back at me in the form of my massacred family, "Not Francis…"

"He called upon Amon, a demon he didn't fully understand… a fresh reject from hell, and before he knew it, he lost control," Castiel said, "He was in your home for three days, Taylor," He explained, "He possessed every one of your family and made them cut out their own throats… and by the third day, he had taken over your body." Castiel took a step towards me, "Francis was forced to perform an archaic exorcism on you,"

"He nailed me to the wall?"

"It was the only way he knew… the only one he had studied,"

"He stabbed me… 12 times," I said, all feeling, all will, all other emotion left my body as the heaviest grief descended upon me. "I remember that..." I did, deep inside me, this memory awakened itself and broke down the barriers that had once held it hostage. I remember screaming, begging for my brother to stop, but he didn't hear me… he heard the other voice; Amon's… as he shouted insults and spat at my brother who hacked away at my frail body. He broke my ribs on impact. How did I forget all that pain?

"Amon was caged in the devil's trap, and since he was exiled from hell, he couldn't go back no matter how much Francis tried to send him there," Castiel said, "So to avoid from being bound to the wall forever, he made a deal with your brother,"

"What?" I turned to Castiel who stood beside me, solemnly fixed in a defiant gaze at my corpse on the wall. I could see his eyes were filled with tears.

"If Francis set him free from the trap, he was going to bring you back; clean, renewed… and without any memory of this," He said, "But demons are… complex," He added, "Amon made you an open door, he left you with the cross you bear… your ability to see through into the other world," Casitle explained, "He told Francis that one day, he was going to come back for you,"

"That's why Francis wanted to find him first?" I said. I finally understood the method to my brother's madness, and the reason why he was so burdened… every time, all the time. Darkly, I wished he had just buried me in a shallow grave and walked away… _just saved us all this trouble…_

"Taylor," I heard Castiel say, his hand taking mine.

"He has me now doesn't he?" I said. "You brought me here to keep me from feeling the pain he filled me with the last time he possessed me… like being burned alive…"

"I'm sorry, Taylor…" Castiel said as placed a hand against my cheek. I began to feel faint. "I wish I could keep you here," He said, and I saw the wealth of sadness in his eyes. "You have to go back now," He whispered. "But I'm here," He promised, "You have to keep fighting, Taylor… you are important,"

A bright light filled the room and Castiel enveloped me in an embrace. We fell through the light; and down the proverbial rabbit hole into a reality I wished I could escape forever. But he was right, I had to go back and keep fighting. I owed it to the sleeping children in that ward. I owed it to Sam and Dean Winchester. I owed it to my brother. Someone in the Nelson family had to be set free of all this pain… even if it wasn't going to be me.


	5. Chapter 5

Heartless: Episode 5

"All The World's A Stage"

There once was a girl named Taylor Aubrey Nelson who lived with her family all the way in Newark, New Jersey. She spent her days working at the local coffee shop, taking photos of sunsets, and watching her boyfriend Maddox paint on sidewalks and lamp posts. Maddox went to art school, he played in a punk three-piece band, and he worked nights at the local second hand book store. He wore nothing but band shirts and plaid, and always thought Taylor would make a great graphic novel hero… even though she didn't agree. He smoked way too many cigarettes, painted his nails black, and his hair was dyed bright red- which he one day confessed to doing just so Taylor would notice him. At least it worked.

Taylor's dad didn't think a whole lot of Maddox, but he never said a word against him. He took solace in the fact that Maddox went to college, and maybe someday soon, Taylor would be inspired to do the same. Taylor's mom however loved Maddox; after all, he was one hell of a charmer. Francis on the other hand, would've thrown Maddox out onto the pavement months ago, if it wasn't for all those black magic books he sold him in secret.

There was barely a day that went by that Taylor didn't see Maddox; they were simply inseparable. Until of course, one day Taylor Aubrey Nelson just vanished off the face of the earth. 5 months after their disappearance, the authorities decided Taylor and Francis Nelson had been murdered too, given the amount of blood they left at the scene.

Unfortunately for Maddox, he was unaccustomed to bad news such as this, and as much of a realist as he was- Maddox was also extremely temperamental. After living a life built to retaliate against everyone's expectations, Maddox did what everyone half-heartedly expected him to do… he drove his car over a cliff, and died in a blaze lit by a spark in his pick up's gas tank.

When Taylor read about his death in the paper, she didn't cry. She simply couldn't… it was too late. After all the horrors she had seen, and all the pain she had endured… and all the people she had lost in her life, Taylor's grief stores had been spent. She was numb; unfeeling; jaded and lost. The only times she ever felt anything anymore, was when she picked a fight with her brother, or when her body was overrun with adrenaline as they dodged Death just one more time.

But then she learned something about herself… that she was different, maybe even _important_… or so the Winchester brothers believed. They believed in her so much that they dragged her into a war without any real preparation, and without knowing anything about Taylor Aubrey Nelson at all. Who knew that some no-good punk kid from New Jersey, with a pink streak in her hair, and stolen Doc Martens would be so much trouble?

Adapted from Taylor's Journal (continued):

December 9th 2009.

When I fell back down into my body; that conscious state where the real world resided, I felt a scorching heat lick at my limbs. It was the strangest sensation, like a thousand pins and needles poking away at me without drawing blood. I looked up and saw Sam and Dean struggling against the wall, tirelessly trying to stay centred and at least conscious. "You little insects…" I heard myself say, "Stop struggling, it's so utterly pathetic,"

"You son of a bitch!" Dean huffed furiously, "Get out of her! Get out, or I swear to God-"

My voice laughed and I stepped towards Dean, a hand held out in front of me as if some invisible force connected my palm and his neck, "I wish I could, Dean," I spat, twisting my hand and making him cringe. "But pretty little Taylor here is kind of like… a transmission tower for us non-bodied entities- me especially! We're magnetized together… she's my very own house-special, limited edition, special reserve meat-suit. And boys, you can't beat that kind of serendipity…"

"What're you talking about?" Sam muttered.

"Well, I knew it was only a matter of time that I'd run into you," My voice replied, "I mean, how can the Winchester brothers ignore a hot little trail of mayhem like the one I was laying down… but seriously, I didn't see this little twist coming- you brought me a package for me to play in… now that, ladies and gentlemen… is the kind of meant-to-be that's just meant-to-be!" As hard as I tried to stop myself from talking, it was impossible, and when my wrist twisted again, I saw it inflict Dean with an invisible surge of pain. I tried so hard to stop my movements… but I failed every time. I was a prisoner in my own body, nailed inside a box in my head… and every time I so much as moved, I heard his voice whisper to me "You are nothing, you are nothing, you are nothing". A psychological mind trip into madness… I was riding there first class and fast. "Taylor…" My voice said, "I can feel you scratching away in there… seriously," I looked up at Sam and Dean again, "You'd think she'd be a little nicer to the guy who brought her back to life,"

"A- Amon?" Sam stammered.

"Pleasure to meet you," My voice replied. I felt my heart sink… the murderer who slaughtered my family, who killed me, and who had pulled my life to pieces was now in charge of my very being. Every small movement was his… I had no more control, and it was terrifying. "I've been waiting a really long time, but I needed it to be just perfect… just… deliciously… poetic,"

"What do you want with us?" Dean asked. "You think ganking us will put you back in the hell-good-books?"

"Dean Winchester…" Amon replied, "You know all this could've been over sooner if I wasn't kicked out of hell the first moment those parasites saw a chink in the chain- my god the things I would've done to you if I was in the Hotel California the same time you were…" My mind reeled, _Dean Winchester? In hell?_ "But then again, I hear you did a pretty good job at kicking yourself in the guts- so maybe it was meant to be… a little torture here, a little torture there… and now, well, now it's all over,"

"What the hell are you talking about!" Sam grimaced.

"I could blame it all on you guys of course- well, maybe I will… but you see, politics in hell is like a blood sport," Amon replied, "The moment some big cheese in hell keels over, everyone comes scrambling for the high chair. It's ridiculous… well, that's how it went for me anyway. My father was a pretty big deal, and a whole lot of people hated him, even after all the work he had done- years, and years and years of hard work… all barrelling down to this wonderful Disney land of opportunities we see here today,"

"Your father?" Sam murmured, "Lucifer?"

Amon laughed, picking up a scalpel from the ground to inspect it as he took a few steps closer to the Winchesters. I tried one more time to loosen his grip on the knife, but he didn't even feel me kick and scream. I knew what he was thinking of doing with that knife… and as hard as I tried to block out the images that flashed across my mind, I could not. "Not that scum filled sack of crap!" Amon sneered, "I can't believe how much time my father spent worshipping that _angel_ like he was our god…"

Dean and Sam's minds clicked over simultaneously- I could see it in their expressions.

"No," Amon said quietly to himself, seeing my reflection in the scalpel as he held it up, "You killed my father… Azazel," he said, "After all the attention he showered over you like you were some sort of prized prodigal son… returning to the fold- and look at how you repaid him!" Amon shouted, "The moment his body hit the earth, they cast me out and I've had all this time to plan out exactly how you're going to die, Sam and Dean Winchester… but right now I'm thinking… why don't we just improvise,"

The hallway doors beside us slammed open with a bang, and Amon turned to see Francis barrelling down towards us, a shot gun pointed straight for our heads. "Get out of her! Get out!" He screamed, "In nomen nostri senior quod savior, licentia suus somes!" A moment later he was flung back onto the ground, screaming in pain. I wish I had listened to Castiel and the Winchesters… I wish I hadn't texted him our plans from the Chevrolet when no one was paying attention. But 9 months of training had turned me into my brother's little do-as-you're-told wind-up toy. _Always let big brother know where you're headed_…

"Are you kidding me?" Amon smirked, "The doting brother… Francis my darling- the part-time occult practitioner… long time no see," Amon stepped towards him and placed a foot on Francis' neck. "Seems like just yesterday you were summoning me to your pretty little home in Newark," He laughed. Francis tried his exorcism spell again, muttering quietly through chokes for breath. "Are you insane or just stupid? We've been through this before- you can't _send_ me anywhere, you moron- I'm black listed out of hell… and your sister is tied to me," Amon said, "You can't tear us apart unless you cut us apart… and if you kill me, well, then you kill her too… simple as that,"

"You can't have her…" Francis growled, fighting against the pressure on his neck, his hands clasped around my foot. "Please, I'll do anything… take me," He muttered pathetically. "She didn't do this… she didn't want this,"

Amon however, had his quota of family-love-moments for the night, and laughed in response. "Sorry, sonny, but how else am I going to teach the world the valuable lesson it needs to learn?" He sneered, "Don't… mess… with the dark side," He jammed my foot down into Francis' neck and I heard a snap that made my skin crawl. I screamed in agony inside my head, but nothing reached my vocal chords. I clawed at the walls of the box that held me, but nothing happened. The voice that shared the space with me just got louder "You are nothing, you are nothing, you are nothing". I couldn't get out, I couldn't move, I couldn't even cry. _I'm not nothing, I'm not nothing, I'm not nothing_, I muttered back, swallowed by an unfathomable grief. My whole life, the last strand holding me together… my last hope for a home was gone.

I thought of the car rides, the fights, the Polaroids we took of each other just to piss each other off… The bad dinner food, the hunting trips, the stories we told… the people we scammed. I thought of all the times he promised me we could turn back; all the times he painted me a picture of a future that lay just after Amon's salt-burnt corpse. He had tried so hard to make me believe there was a happy ending to this twisted story of death and a blind hunt for retribution… but hadn't he seen Hamlet? Or Sweeney Todd? All those screwed up stories end up the same- they sing the same note… you live in the darkness long enough, you become a part of it. And then, you die- because deep down, really, truthfully, at the end of that long and winding road there are just more and more miles of torture. The only way out is death.

I tried as hard as I could to remind myself I was still here… that I still existed, no matter how impossible it was to prove at this moment in time. I kicked, I screamed, I punched, cursing Amon's name and hearing my voice just echo back to me. _I'm still here!_ I screamed, after all, wasn't that true? Somewhere, somehow, I still had the presence of mind to know I was still kicking and screaming- maybe that was enough. A small thought entered my head; _you are important_.

"Taylor," I thought I heard as Amon made his way towards Sam, the scalpel gleaming in hand. "Taylor…" Francis' voice gurgled behind me. I turned. Suddenly, I had the capacity to move my own head, and I stared down at Francis who choked his last breath. Amon retreated unwillingly and I broke the surface for one tiny moment.

"Taylor!" Sam screamed at me. I lifted the scalpel and knew what I had to do. I turned it on myself and sliced a deep cut into my chest.

"Absum! Is est a miles militis of Deus!"I screamed as the knife sunk into my flesh, a stream of blood staining my hand as my knees buckled and I fell backwards. Amon tried to flee, but he had nowhere to run to. He flew out through the cut in my chest; a bright white light that screamed in a torturous voice only I could hear. It filled the room and shook it, breaking glass and throwing items through space. Then it was gone… forever.

I fell to the ground and felt pain begin to grow from the wound I had created on my chest. I saw Dean and Sam fall to the ground too, stumbling towards me as fast as they could.

The next thing I remember was waking for a moment in Sam's arms as Castiel held my face and whispered to me; "Stay with us, Taylor… stay…" I saw his eyes turn into a piercing electric blue, and his skin glow as he flexed his wings above me. I wondered- a stray thought skating across my mind- if his dusty grey wings used to be white.

"It's okay, Castiel," I whispered softly, my hand clasping around his hand that cupped my face, "God still loves you,"

My eyes rolled back in my head and I was enveloped in darkness for a long while. Afterwards, I remember small flashes of action happening around me; the boys shouting to each other as I lay in Castiel's lap in the back seat of the speeding Impala… the neon lights in an emergency room of a hospital that was bustling with activity… a doctor telling me to stay lucid, to stay awake, and to tell her exactly where I was as if I had all the answers. As they put a mask around my face, I wished darkly that there would be nothing they could do for me. I wished that somehow, I would be able to see Francis again… my little sister… my mom and dad… Maddox… my dog Mercury. I had a whole life somewhere outside this one. How was it possible? I was dead even though I was the only one still breathing.

"If I knew, I would've thanked him," Dean Winchester read from the pages of a mole skin journal. He looked up across the table at Bobby and Sheryl who sat, waiting expectantly. "She ripped out a tonne of pages," Dean observed.

"No shit, Sherlock," Sam said, taking the journal from him.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean muttered.

"Hey, you two cut it out!" Bobby interrupted gruffly, "I don't know what it is you two are fighting about this time, but if you could just put your differences aside for a moment-"

"We'd appreciate it," Sheryl put in, stopping Bobby's angry rant short. Bobby looked up at her, like a dog that had just gotten its bone snatched away. He scratched his head for a moment and adjusted his trucker cap.

"What happened to her? Have you seen her since?" Bobby asked, after clearing his throat.

"No," Dean replied, "She vanished after a couple of weeks at the hospital…" He said, leaning back in his chair to think, "We looked for her, but couldn't find her anyway… We just figured she hit the road again." Dean shrugged, "Hunters come and go all the time, hell Sheryl's done more of her fair share of that."

"Yeah, well, I can't see hell hounds and demons outside a vessel… nor can I look upon the true form of an angel without my eyes probably exploding right outta my head," Sheryl replied

"Yeah well," Dean replied with a smug smile on his face, "I got pulled outta hell and the abominable snowman over here can fill up on demon blood and gank demon bitches right out of their meat suits," Dean said plainly, earning a dirty look from Sam.

"Exactly my point," Sheryl replied, "And both of you have a pretty big role to play in all this stuff that's been going on,"

"You're saying you think Taylor has a part in the Apocalypse?" Sam asked.

"It's possible," Sheryl said.

"Think about it, guys," Bobby said, "She's a transistor for the good, the bad and the ugly," He sighed, "She's an open door- a vessel… ringin' any bells?"

"She's just some kid from Newark," Dean scoffed.

"And you're both just kids from Lawrence," Bobby replied, and Dean had no choice but to bite his tongue. Truth was that Dean couldn't deny the possibility of Taylor's importance for a second… after all; he still had no idea how she exorcised and killed Amon while being possessed by him. But Dean didn't like the idea that something like this had wormed its way out of his hands for so long…

"She turned up at the motel I run back in Wyomming," Sheryl said. "Just a few weeks after her last entry in the journal… of course, I had no idea who she was back then- some runaway kid for all I knew," She smiled to herself as she crossed the room to stand by the window, "I heard her talking to herself at night when I paced the hallway to check up on things, again I never really thought anything of it…" Sheryl looked out the window. "I can't believe how long it took, but they only discovered it two weeks ago,"

Sheryl remembered standing in the reception area of her motel; counting bills like every other morning after a visit to the mailbox. It was business as usual, until of course, she heard a scream from one of the rooms. A guest had discovered a strange painting underneath their bed; a large, sinister looking pentagram with Latin words scribbled around it. It looked like a devil's trap, but was actually an ancient spell against the evil eye. When Sheryl stripped the room, she found more etchings and paintings of the same variety. On the hidden side of the bed's headboard were the words: "Absum! Is est a miles militis of Deus."

Sheryl shared pictures of the room with Sam and Dean; the reality of the situation finally hitting them- it showed in their expressions. "I remembered seeing her out in the garden all the time, under the old Willow," Sheryl said, "Sure enough, she had this old journal buried under there… for the life of me, I don't know why she didn't just burn the damned thing. Well, I'm glad she didn't… She was gone after a couple of weeks, just left money on the reception and gapped it. I didn't even see her go,"

"She's running from something big," Bobby said. "And if she's still out there, she's fighting the good fight on her own,"

"Never should've let her just run out like that…" Dean huffed, sounding angry at himself.

"Wait, this final line here," Sam began, pointing to the final page in her journal, "If I knew, I would've thanked him," He read, "Who is she talking about?"

"Well," Sheryl said, turning towards the boys again, "I have a feeling she was talking about the person who helped her out of that hospital bed and helped her go on the run," She explained.

"Who?" Dean asked.

"Well, I can't say for certain- but I remember catching a glimpse of a man talking to her outside my motel when she first showed up. They were all the way up the driveway, standing in the rain… but she walked in on her own,"

"What?" Dean leaned forward in his chair, "Who was it?"

"Like I said, I can't say for certain- they were standing a fair distance away and it was raining…" Sheryl said, and was met with the eager glances of the men around her. "Well…" she began with a sigh, "He was wearing a trench coat".


	6. Chapter 6

**Heartless: Episode 6**

"Carry On My Wayward Son"

Dean leaned against the hood of his car that night, staring up at the stars and hoping for an answer… he scoffed as a stray thought entered his head; how many times has he done this? Really? Just stared up at the blanket of black overhead like all the answers to his life's rough edges were hidden up there. Somewhere, up there, there was a cure- _yeah right_, Dean thought to himself, _that's the sort of thing that drove my father insane_… _chasing down answers to an unsolvable puzzle_. "Castiel," He said, "You know where I am, so how about you play dice and just come talk already,"

"He can't gap it forever," Sam said, walking up to his brother. He offered Dean a weak smile. "We could summon him like the first time you did," He suggested, "Force him to talk-"

Dean groaned like a child being asked to do his homework; "I really don't feel like painting in blood right now,"

"I guess that's fair," Sam said. A short pause followed, and the boys just stared off into the pitch black horizon. Sam glanced back at the house, seeing Bobby and Sheryl inside, preparing a hap-hazard dinner in the kitchen. He turned back and saw Dean lost in thought again. "Why is he hiding _this_ from us, Dean?" Sam asked. "I mean, given the amount of stuff we deal with everyday- the stuff we're facing right _now_… why is Taylor such a big deal?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean said "Feels like he's trying to keep her out of the game… maybe for her own safety," He shrugged. "Maybe he's sweet on her or something," He scoffed, and they shared a laugh.

Almost 8 months ago in Chicago, snow fell outside the windows of a hospital on another dreary December morning. Inside it was warm and musky, like a mausoleum for the living that smelled like antiseptic. Dean waited for the coffee machine to make him yet another terrible cup of double-shot-black-coffee and wondered why the smell of antiseptic just made him think of dirty things… diseased things… dying things- how come the smell just never felt as clean as it should? When he realized he was philosophising a chemical smell, he chuckled to himself and went to check on Sammy who was resting his eyes across a few chairs in the waiting room.

Taylor Nelson woke up in a hospital bed, strapped to a heart rate monitor and an IV, a thick layer of bandages over her chest. It took her a terrifying couple of minutes to remember why she was there exactly, and when she did- there was nothing but painful silence and grief to fill the void where confusion had left in a hurry.

She remembered her brother; a slave to a cause called revenge- who suffered from his own mistakes, and who died when a demon he angered possessed her and made her snap his neck with the heel of her boot. That snapping sound, that quick little click… it echoed inside Taylor's head long after, and every little sound she heard in the hospital ricocheted her back to that moment. That sound. That sight. Her brother; Francis Nelson; 27 and yet so much older from all the things they had seen and all the pain they had endured together… and all the secrets he had kept away from her. She remembered the way his voice gurgled out her name… and how his eyes stayed a fraction open even as all life drained from his body.

"Absum… Is est a miles militis of Deus," Taylor muttered to herself in a croaky voice.

"Taylor?" Castiel said as he approached the bed, leaning over her with that same sad look on his face.

"How did I know to say that," Taylor asked in a quiet voice. She drew a painful breath, and Castiel's gaze moved to the floor. He took a step away from her bed, a dark solemnity taking over him.

"It's Latin… you must have heard it somewhere in all the books you've read," Castiel said.

"I could've sworn…" Taylor murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as fatigue reclaimed her body. "I heard it many years ago… in a voice I could've sworn was your own,"

Castiel looked up at her again as she drifted away into sleep; a symptom and a sickness that claimed her for the past week. He put a hand to her head and felt the heat from her fore head rise onto the palm of his hand. "I am so sorry, Taylor" He whispered to her, "I wanted to save you…" he said, "I tried so hard…"

Taylor was right about where she had heard that Latin phrase; an ancient and very special weapon against demonic possession and interference. 16 years ago when she was only 7, Castiel had said those words in her aid… and even though very few fragments of that memory remained, those words were emblazoned deep in the recesses of her mind. Deep inside her, in the same place where Amon locked her away when he took over her body. Without knowing, he had locked her in with the key.

Castiel had always been a reluctant soldier; ever since the first day he was created and given consciousness. It was all good and fair in heaven, when all he did was patrol paradise and observe its beautiful joyous intricacies. Everyone up there was happy, content, and he saw that what his Father had created was good. Then the day for his first descent to earth came… and it was like tasting the apple from the tree in Eden. Castiel looked through the blinds of Taylor's hospital room; a patient's coughing echoing through the walls from the next room was the only thing grounding him from being lost in a collection of his memories that stretched on for hundreds of years. He remembered the sickness he saw- it was the first thing that really hit him. The first thing to burst the bubble he was living in… "Father," he had whispered to himself, humbled from the famine, the disease and the death he saw all around him, "Why have you forsaken them?"

Then he saw the torment and the pain that the human creature endured in every other way; emotional, mental… spiritual. They lost faith, and who could blame them? It was like they lived for a few short decades in a hamster wheel, winding down tunnels of their so-called destinies. Free-will was just a sick, twisted illusion, and no matter how much they tried, humanity could not control their sad fate. Castiel's friend and guardian at the time found the whole scene amusing, and even though it was frowned upon, often ridiculed the human race. In truth, Uriel only half-heartedly carried out his Father's commands to serve the ones in need, he did so only out of fear for God.

Castiel's job at the time was to watch over and facilitate in the passion, the work and the miracles of God's army on earth. He watched over so many of his Father's mercenaries die in his name, and he watched even more murder in his name... a confusion of love and hate for a creator who watched and wept at the catastrophe below. Castiel's free-will felt like an illusion too… what was the purpose of all his power when all he could do was watch his Father's most loved creations plummet to their doom? Uriel told him their jobs were to make sure the balance between good and evil remained, but to Castiel- there was far too much evil, and sadness, and fear… that's when Castiel experienced his first taste of doubt.

"You are beginning to express emotion," Uriel told him as they arrived at a house where Castiel was meant to carry out his watchful duties for the night, "These are doorways to doubt, brother," Uriel warned, "Do not let the humans allow you to feel as they do- their emotions weaken them… it's what separates us,"

Castiel only nodded in response, and they entered the darkened house. Uriel was filled with grand notions that he probably never fully understood himself; like a bird parroting a phrase.

"You can do this by yourself, can't you?" Uriel said to him, flexing his grand, white wings. Castiel nodded again.

"Where is she?" He asked, trying to fight the nagging unsettled feeling inside his heart.

"She's upstairs. Remember, all you do is watch and make sure it is done… it has to be done," Uriel said sternly, "Do not let our Father down… she has been born to fulfil this destiny- to be his soldier,"

"I will do as is instructed," Castiel replied, trying to shake Uriel off for the night, "You can feel free to leave now,"

Uriel smirked, "As you wish, young grasshopper," he laughed, and left in a flapping of his heavy wings. It tore a breeze through the room and Castiel folded his wings over his face briefly.

"Thanks, Uriel," He muttered, "And I still do not get that reference." Then again, Castiel reminded himself that Uriel was really the funniest angel in the garrison, and a lot of his jokes flew straight over his head.

He walked up the stairs, and at the end of the hallway at the top, he saw an opened door. It was just as he was instructed; just another day on the job, except Uriel left out a very important detail…

Castiel pushed the door open and his expression dropped. Sitting on the edge of her bed and flipping through her brother's comic books was 7 year old Taylor Aubrey Nelson. She was just a child; a tiny, innocent creature in pink pyjamas and sitting atop a teddy bear printed bedspread.

"This can't be…" he muttered to himself. Taylor stopped suddenly and Castiel took a step back.

"Francis?" She called in a hushed voice as she turned towards the door where Castiel was standing. It felt to him like their eyes met, but she saw right through him. Of course, back then, Taylor couldn't pierce the veil and see the things she saw today. If she had, she would've seen Castiel; a glowing gold form with bright white wings that stretched out across the room and piercing blue eyes that shone in the dim light. She was just 7 years old and her biggest fear right now was being busted for stealing her brother's comics.

She was beautiful, and so precious; enveloped in a bubble of innocence and so unaware of the world's bad and ugly things that lurked in the darkness. She was content to think that those terrible things just existed in dreams and on the TV Screen… or in the pages of her brother's Constantine comics. She was so… _perfect_… and they were going to destroy her. _Forever_.

Taylor opened up the pages of the graphic novel to a full page drawing of a woman being dissected on an altar by terrifying looking goat-headed demons. Castiel felt sick, and he put a hand over his face, hanging his head in a sadness that overtook him. His doubt was so alive now, and so thick… it felt heavy and painful as it pulsed through his veins. He felt it in his throat; a strange choking feeling that nagged at him, and he felt it in his eyes. He looked up to Taylor again as he shrunk back against a wall in the hallway, a tear rolling down his face. "My Lord, My God," He murmured, "Why would you forsake her?" He said, "Why would you allow this to happen to so pure a thing?" His doubt grew so big that deep inside him, a river of dark emotions surged forth. He felt the same way when he saw Taylor crucified against the wall at age 22, and he felt the same way when Taylor asked him to kill her after he had chased her through the woods in Chicago. "Guide me Father," He said, "I am not strong enough,"

Suddenly, a strange clicking sound filled the air and Castiel looked up towards Taylor's door that was still ajar. He looked in, and the clicking continued, growing into two choruses of repetitive clicks as a window near her dresser slid upwards to open. Taylor seemed oblivious to the sound and the window; she just sat transfixed by the horrors drawn out in the graphic novel.

"No," Castiel muttered, "No…"

A dark cloud rose up from outside the house and entered through the open window, the clicking growing into three choruses now- and getting louder by the second. It was a terrible, insect-like noise, and it was spine chilling.

The cloud moved across the floor, snaking towards Taylor's feet and forming into a little girl in white. To Taylor, she would've looked sweet and gentle; with blonde curls and rosy cheeks that lit up her pale complexion. But Castiel saw her for what she really was; a hollow eyed wraith-like girl with ash grey skin and jagged gaping scars all over her face and body.

When Taylor looked up, she almost reeled back in horror, the colour from her face draining a little. "Oh! Mina, you scared me!" Taylor said, taking a moment to regain her composure. She smiled and Castiel's gut twisted up in knots… _just how long had they been doing this? Pretending this demon before her was just some imaginary playmate?_

Mina stretched out a hand; "Come, Taylor, let's play a game," She said, "It's a simple game, I'm just going to ask you something and all you have to do is say yes,"

"I'm tired…" Taylor whined, let's just play tomorrow.

"But don't you want to have fun?" The little girl smiled sweetly. "All you have to do is say yes,"

Taylor's eyes suddenly became fixated on the little girl, her expression dropping into a placid complacency. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she stood up on the bed to face Mina. "O-okay…"

"Taylor," Mina, "I need you to let me into your mind for a moment- just for a moment. You see, there's a door in there… a real door- like at the end of that rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland… it's tiny, but it's there- and behind it is something really beautiful, and important. I need to unlock it," She explained, "And then you can go into this other beautiful world on the other side," She said. "Don't you want that?" She grinned, "We can have a really nice tea party,"

Castiel nearly buckled at the knees from the conflict going on inside his head. What was he going to do? What could he do? _Something… anything_…

"Don't you want that, Taylor?" She asked.

Taylor nodded.

"I need you to say it, Taylor…"

"Ye-"

Castiel could take no more. He leaped forward and shoved the little girl back against the window she entered from. "Absum! Is est a miles militis of Deus!" He shouted in a voice filled with passion and fury. It shook the room and a bright light emanated from him, engulfing the demon in a blinding blast of white. She screamed in agony as it burned and destroyed her, her true form shattering through to the surface for a moment before she was evaporated in flames. When he turned around, Taylor was flat on the floor and unconscious. He picked her up and laid her on the bed, tucking her in and praying over her to keep her safe for the rest of the night. He chanted the phrase continuously, stroking her head as he cried softly. "I promise to take care of you," He murmured, "I promise to keep you safe… and away from this path for as long as I can," He rested his head on the bed beside her, his arms around her frail body, "I promise."

"Castiel," He heard Uriel say as he appeared behind him. Castiel turned and saw Uriel staring back at him angrily, "What have you done?"

"She's so young," Castiel said, "This could not be right, I prayed for our Father's guidance and I received the strength to save her…"

"Her path is already written," Uriel said gruffly, "No matter what you do, Castiel, she will become what she needs to become…"

"Why?" Castiel said, exasperated. "Why her? Look at her, Uriel… she's just a child!"

"She needs to be ready… there will be a reckoning when the time arrives… we need her to fight,"

"We don't need her to fight- that was never the plan… that is never the plan!" Castiel replied as fury took over, "She's just another lamb for the slaughter- that's all we ever do… prepare lambs for the slaughter!"

"Your doubt is a sad colour on you, brother," Uriel said plainly, "It has eaten away all your right and righteous thinking… how dare you question the plans our Father has written?" He scoffed, "Do you think you are greater than he?"

Castiel looked back at him, dumbfounded. "No…" he murmured, "Of course not… brother…"

"There are so few moments for this girl to be prepared… and now we must wait for the next time- who knows how many years away that is… by then, it may be too late…" Uriel stared at him, looking disgusted at what Castiel had done. "I am sorry, Castiel, but it looks like you must be reminded of our duties as angels of the Lord," he said.

"Brother," Castiel fell to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes, "I did what I thought was right- I am so sorry, please…" He grasped for Uriel's hands. He knew the kind of punishment that was waiting for him- he knew the heavy penance he would have to pay for his sins; a thousand scourges at the very least. "Please…"

"I'm sorry, Castiel," Uriel said, "But our Father commands it… what you have done here is against everything we have learned… and everything that we are. We are to do our duty, and provide a balance for good and evil- to prepare a way to when the reckoning comes. You questioned… and showed doubt… you helped this girl stray from her destiny…" He said, "For now…"

It took Castiel many years after that to realize that Uriel was just really… well… full of shit. There was never really any instructions for any of this that came from God himself, after all, the politics in Heaven were a little like the politics in hell; a confused mess. God the creator was an enigma to them all; it was the higher order of angels who slowly took over the duties in heaven, and who decided on plots and fates and destinies. They believed that what they were doing would allow paradise on earth, an extension of their kingdom- it was really just a case of blind leading the blind.

_Where was God in all this?_ Castiel often wondered now, but he had to believe that God was there, watching over him… even now when he was so far away from Heaven… even now when he was marching off the beaten track. Even now, when his wings were stained gray. God must've been watching- after all, Castiel cheated death and self destruction so many times now, he knew it wasn't just coincidence and good luck. Someone up there was rooting for him, and it was enough to keep him going.

He sat down next to Taylor, now a woman, but still young and unprepared. A beautiful, precious thing thrown into the crossfire between Heaven and hell… the sort of thing that Dean and Sam fought to prevent every day. He watched her sleep for awhile as he rested a hand over hers, studying the ebb and flow of her breathing, and how it came and went in time with the beeping of her heart monitor. She looked at peace, which was a nice thought. He considered finding her in her dreams then, but decided she probably needed the space. He smiled to himself and clutched her hand tightly. "I'm going to save you Taylor," He promised, "Better late than never…"

Bobby walked into his study late that night, after finally getting Dean and Sam to shut up already and fall asleep. They were still like the young little boys he cared for when John Winchester was away chasing a memory of his late wife… nothing about their relationship dynamic ever changed… it was still strained and blood-close all the time, every time.

He sat down at his table and looked down at Taylor's diary that sat before him… Sheryl was right, it was an easy obsession to fall into. _Just who the hell was Taylor Aubrey Nelson?_ And as he wondered if the missing pieces of her puzzle would ever come to him, a flutter of wings filled the room. He looked up.

"Cas?"

A sad and tired looking man in a trench coat looked up at him slowly. "Bobby," Castiel returned the greeting, "I'm sorry I could not come earlier…" He said, "I felt it was best that Sam and Dean weren't around when I came to talk to you,"

"What're you talking about?" Bobby said, "You know whatever you tell me now, I'm going to tell them anyway,"

"I know, and that's good…" Castiel replied, "I just cannot tell Dean and Sam this myself… Dean's… complex." He said, looking around the room as if the wallpapers would offer him the words he was searching for, "And Sam is filled with a lot of anger… both of them are… they wouldn't let me get through a sentence if they found out how much I was keeping from them,"

"Why are you keeping this from them exactly?" Bobby asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Many reasons… there's too much on their plate for one, and well… there are many complications with Taylor's story that will take them off the journey they are on now," Castiel replied. He was met with a blank look from Bobby and had to reiterate more; "Taylor can't be a part of all of this… I made a promise to her many years ago that I would save her from this pain, and I must deliver… she isn't ready- and how can she be?" He said, "She is so young,"

"Cas, just spit it out will ya!" Bobby said, "What is it you're hiding about her?"

"Absum… Is est a miles militis of Deus," Castiel said, "The incantation she used to exorcise herself of Amon…" Bobby nodded, remembering that it was etched in the room at Sheryl's motel too. "It means 'Be gone, this is a soldier of God',"

"A soldier of God?" Bobby asked, sounding shocked, "What're you talking about?"

Castiel took a deep breath, hoping the burden on his shoulders would lift after he had shared this information, "Taylor Nelson…" he began, "Is a Martyr of the Lord."

"What?"

"She was born to one day die for his cause; in a fight against evil… and to one day be canonised a Saint who would continue to work miracles on earth," Castiel explained.

"Like… Mother Theresa?" Bobby blurted out.

"More like Joan of Arc," Castiel said, "A demon was supposed to make her an open door years ago, when she was only 7, so that now, she would be a fully fledged warrior… perhaps even have a hand in leading a battalion against Lucifer," He sighed, "I saw into her future then; her falling further away from her family, Francis included… her being committed to an asylum, because her parents wouldn't understand her visions… and the things she saw… it was filled with so much pain and agony," Castiel said, "I just couldn't allow it… I stepped in, and I saved her… the incident with Amon and Francis when she was 22 was a freak accident," He said, "It never should have happened… but when it did, her path towards Martyrdom was being paved again… I cannot allow it," Castiel said with conviction, "Not now when she is so ill prepared, not after the promises I had made to her… if Dean and Sam can fight their fates, then she can too."

"Won't… I don't know, half of Heaven and hell be looking for her?" Bobby asked; flabbergasted by what he had just heard. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined she was a Martyr… a _soldier of God_, as Castiel put it… as that incantation said… what was it Dean muttered under his breath? That's right… _She's just some kid… from Newark_.

"Yes, this is why she covers her tracks with Enochian sigils and Latin incantations…" The angel replied. "The further away the stays, and the longer- the easier it will be to evade the path,"

"Cas…" Bobby began, taking off his hat and rubbing his eyes. "I know why you did this, I know how much a promise can mean, but… isn't this fight a little futile?" He said, "And you said yourself- maybe a dozen times, that she's important… what if she really _is_ ready, I mean… she exorcised _herself_," He walked around to the front of his desk to lean against it. "You really don't hear about that sorta thing every day…"

"There is a way without her, there always has been," Castiel said, "She needed to destroy Amon as much as Dean and Sam did, at least now she can run without fear of his pursuit," He added.

"Cas… this is just…"

"I don't expect you to understand," Castiel said as he took out a card and passed it to Bobby. "Wait a few months, then go and see her," He said.

"What?" Bobby looked down at the card and saw an address for a gallery in New York. When he looked up again, Castiel was gone.

Bobby had a lot of lies to dream up the next day, and even though Sam and Dean bought his story, he wasn't 100% sure if Sheryl did. She seemed to back away from the conversation with a disappointed look on her face; as if she was waiting for a different, more exciting ending to a story that had nagged at her for months. Bobby just told Dean and Sam that Castiel was afraid of being followed as he was in a tight spot last night- and he found Bobby in his dreams. He told them that Castiel explained he didn't know where Taylor was as he had etched her ribs with Enochian sigils, and that he helped her run away because he knew that without Francis' help, she would die within days out in the field… and that if she joined them, she would only be an extra burden on a twisted road. Dean agreed with the reasoning, and Sam- after a moment's doubt, just nodded and decided to turn his attention somewhere else.

The Winchester boys left the next day for another town in another state, hot on the heels of some other apocalypse-related mess. Bobby on the other hand, just waved goodbye to an old friend that he hoped he would see again… preferably, under different circumstances. But he reminded himself not to get so wishful with his thinking… "Next time I see you walking up the driveway with something in a bag," Bobby began, and Sheryl turned to look at him as she stepped out the front door, "It better be the damned mail," He smirked. She laughed in response, shaking her head.

"If you don't mind, I thought I'd take Taylor's journal," She said, "Maybe I'll let up in a couple of months… but right now, I just ain't ready,"

"I know how you feel," Bobby said, "But it is better this way,"

"I know," Sheryl nodded, a faint smile on her lips as she turned to walk towards her truck. "I'll catch you on the flipside, Bobby," she waved, "And I'll try not to wait a decade next time,"

Bobby laughed and watched her drive away. The card Castiel had given him nagged at him… but he put that thought away and went about investigating some other distraction. In a few weeks, he hoped, Taylor Nelson would stop being a lingering thought in his head. Perhaps putting a bullet in a Windego would do the trick.

Bobby Singer didn't play his war games the same way Sam and Dean did, at least, not as often as they did. When Sam and Dean were out investigating some mysterious supernatural occurrence, they liked to play a little dress-up. The boys often disguised themselves as FBI agents, news reporters, and even doctors… but Bobby preferred to play things fast and loose out in the wild. "It ain't called hunting if you don't have a shot gun in your hand at all times," Bobby always said… _Just an old man, stuck in his ways_…

But one Friday afternoon in the busy rollercoaster life of Manhattan, Bobby found himself in a suit and with his hair slicked back (no trucker cap in sight), pretending to be an FBI agent. It wasn't long before he figured that the building he was inspecting was being haunted by nothing more than a few pathetic Satanists… it was a case for the real crime fighters of Manhattan. _If it's human, it ain't worth budgin'_.

With a few extra hours to spare before sun down, Bobby Singer decided he had earned a walk around the city, and even considered taking a tour bus. But the city was so busy with Christmas shoppers, it was nearly impossible to find a mall, a shop or a café that wasn't filled to maximum occupancy. He just smiled to himself and to a pretty lady walking by, tightening the scarf around his neck and feeling pleased as hell that he packed gloves. _We ain't in Kansas anymore…_

It was December 21, and Bobby Singer rounded a corner in the middle of Manhattan to come face to face with The Rabbit Heart Gallery. His jaw dropped, and he almost did too… with all that was going on around him, Bobby had allowed the thought to slip his mind for so long. "Taylor…" He murmured to himself, and hurriedly raced to the door. But when his hand fastened around the handle on the glass door, he had to take a moment to breathe… was she even there anymore? It had been so long? And was it even her… there? In here? Or was Castiel talking about something else?

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

It was a stark set up, with white washed walls and dim studio style lighting; small yellow spot lights on the masterpieces and a few stray lamps around the room. The roof was high, with scaffolding hanging over head… perhaps to add to its eccentric, stripped-back approach. He saw a large piece hanging in the main foyer, just by the unattended reception and stopped to look; it was Caravaggio's "Beheaded Saint John The Baptist". Bobby couldn't tear his eyes away, it was so haunting, and so life-like… so _possible_.

"Sir, can I help you?" A young woman asked as she approached. Bobby's heart seized for a second. There, before him, was Taylor Aubrey Nelson; even if she looked so different, it was definitely her. She had light brown highlights in her dark hair now that curled beautifully, falling on her shoulders. She wore a blue Greek-inspired dress, and silver heels that matched the bracelets around her wrists. She was perfect, and the sad, fearful girl he had read about in her journal was obviously washing away to reveal this happy, content woman. She smiled and he felt his heart breaking. "Sir?"

"Sorry… I um… no, just looking," He stammered, laughing a little uncomfortable. "This is… beautiful," He said, gesturing to the painting, though he was still unable to take his eyes off her.

"Ah yes, it's on rental from the National Art Museum in Italy," She explained, "Caravaggio's on a bit of a tour at the moment," She grinned, "We've been so lucky to have this stop by here,"

"Yeah…" Bobby paused.

"Let me know if you see anything here that interests you," Taylor said, turning to walk away.

"Um, actually…" Bobby called out, stopping her in her tracks, "I'm sorry, what was your name?"

She smiled, "Taylor,"

"Taylor…"

"Taylor Nelson," She answered.

"Oh," He said, remembering what she had written in her journal all those years ago; that someday, she'd like to be free from being on the run… and able to use her real name. For once.

"And you are?"

"Oh- um… Bob Plant," Bobby said, "I was just in the city for work," He shook his head, "Sorry, where are my manners," They shook hands and she laughed. "If you don't mind, Taylor," He began, "I'd really like it if you could tell me a little more about this painting,"

Taylor grinned, looking so elated that she was positively glowing. He listened to her talk excitedly about the classic painting, describing each brush stroke and detail, and expressing the painting's deep and powerful meaning. Even as she did so, Bobby could not cease to just stare at her. This was a life, a real, honest life… away from the darkness… she had found a cure- an antidote to the downward spiral. It was too late for him, and even though he wished it would never be too late for Dean and Sam- he knew it was. But for Taylor… he smiled softly when she grinned again… well, she was free. And Bobby couldn't think of another person who was more deserving.

Taylor took him on a tour through the entire gallery, talking about each painting with equal enthusiasm. "So," She said at the end, "Can I interest you in any of the paintings?" She smiled and Bobby was shaken back into reality.

"You know Taylor…" Bobby said, "I just don't think any of these pieces would be happy going away with me… I think they look perfect just here,"

Even though he had turned down a sale, Taylor still smiled. "Well," She said, "If you change your mind…"

"Well, I guess I'll take one of those polaroids," He said, pointing to a collage on the wall, "They're amazing, who took them?"

Taylor giggled. Bobby knew the answer, "Um, they're mine," She said, blushing a little, "They're not really for sale… they're just… to look at,"

"Well, could I have one?"

Taylor laughed, "Yeah," She said, "Sure…"

Bobby left the gallery with a Polaroid of one of Taylor's classic sunset shots, feeling uplifted- for once in a long while. Her happiness was contagious, and as he stole one quick glance back at the gallery doors, he knew he had to leave her… and that Castiel was right. She was a shining beacon of hope- a hope for a life- a possible happy ending to a sordid story. She was an example of what can happen when something goes right… that was enough. Bobby crossed the street to hail a cab.

Inside the gallery, Taylor hung up another Polaroid to replace the one Bobby had stripped from the wall. Jenna, a red headed woman stood behind her with a smile on her face, "Promise me you'll go to art school, Taylor," She said.

Taylor turned towards her work colleague, giggling, "You gotta stop getting my hopes up so much… you really think I could?"

"Why the hell not, have you seen the pretentious shit that gets sold for a thousand bucks a piece in here? I'd rather buy your stuff…" Jenna replied with a scoff.

"Maybe," Taylor shrugged. "Someday,"

"Soon," Jenna put in with a stern sounding voice for effect. She looked back to Taylor's wall of photos and sighed, "They're all so… hopeful," Jenna observed. "How do you get that kind of optimism and bottle it up in a photo… especially in today's shit-ridden world," She smirked.

A faint smile appeared on Taylor's lips as she lowered her gaze- a memory from a year back sneaking into her head. "It's easy to believe in so much evil… why not so much good?"

They shared a glance and Jenna brushed away the Hallmark moment with a smirk, "If you crochet that into a banner, I swear to God I'll put it up,"

"Shut up," Taylor scoffed. "I need caffeine! Caffeine?"

"Only if it comes with a side of sugar- yes please!" Jenna said dramatically as she threw herself towards the reception counter. "Black and lots of sugar please, please, please!"

"Okay- I'll go ask Mark if he wants one," Taylor giggled.

She smiled to herself and spun around to walk to the back room, her heels tapping loudly on the wooden floors. She was alive, and brimming with enthusiasm- to a point where she was even able to forget the hex bags she had planted over the gallery doors. Some days, she would swear that everything she had endured that dark year on the open road was all just a really long, intricate nightmare… if only it wasn't for that scar across her chest, and the occasional sight of a strange thing lurking in the shadows… then those memories could stay faraway nightmares forever.

For now though, Taylor's spirits were high- high enough for her to volunteer going on a coffee run for all her colleagues at the gallery. She took another glance at her photo wall before she left, pleased that someone saw her work and wanted a piece of it.

High up above her, standing watchful on a strip of scaffolding was her saviour; Castiel. He smiled, sighing deeply. He visited her every time he could, especially when he was feeling tired and beaten down from his time on the battle field with the Winchesters. Taylor of course, never saw him. Castiel felt different today; a sense of realization had hit him; _this was Taylor's life now_. He saw what was possible… he saw her smile, her peace, and her version of paradise… here on earth. He saw what his Father allowed to unfold- in time. And he saw that it was good.

"Goodbye, Taylor," He whispered to himself, and though he smiled, his own words felt heavy on his heart. With some resistance, he pulled himself away and turned to leave.

THE END


End file.
